A Sense of Balance
by Billy4Me
Summary: A case hits close to home for Sara, and Grissom is forced to show his true colors. GS chapter 23 up
1. A Lack of Mercury

**A/N:** This is my first attempt. Constructive criticism is always welcome, as I would like to improve my writing in any way possible. Destructive criticism just bites. :)  
  
**Spoilers: **A small one for "Too Tough to Die" in this chapter. But I've seen all four seasons, so any episode is fair game for future chapters.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Believe me, I wish I owned CSI. Because, if I did, Grissom and Sara would be living the American dream with their 2.3 kids and ¾ of a dog. Or maybe Grissom would be living with me and Sara would be on the outside looking in. Or maybe... oh, never mind. I don't own them, OK? Never have, never will. But it sure is fun to play with them, isn't it? :)  
  
**A Sense of Balance  
**  
Chapter 1  
  
Sara had a tenuous grip on an armload of gear as she approached the SUV. A stack of cold case files was carefully balanced under her left arm, a duffel bag was slung haphazardly over her right shoulder, and her kit was grasped tightly in her right hand, along with her keys. The balance may have been precarious, but it worked... that is, until she moved the kit to her other hand to allow herself room to maneuver the key into the driver's door. She felt the files begin to shift dangerously and instinctively moved her left leg in a desperate attempt to regain her equilibrium. Unfortunately, she didn't take into account the weight of the duffel bag, which followed her movements and knocked her slightly off balance, causing the files to drop unceremoniously to the ground.  
  
"Crap!" she muttered, her gaze falling on the scattered mess of files at her feet. She stooped toward the ground with a sigh. It would take hours to get everything back into its rightful place. "This is _so_ not my night..."

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom had never seen the need for much time away from work. For the most part, he loved his job too much to stay away from it. But there were times when he was only too happy to take a night off. This was one of those times.  
  
Only too eager to forget where he worked, he'd done his best to take off the day's stresses with his attire the minute he had set foot in his townhouse, shucking his shoes immediately before going to work on the upper part of his body. Removing uncomfortable slacks in favor of a far more relaxing pair of knee-length gym shorts, he'd then succumbed to laziness and contented himself with merely unbuttoning his shirt and rolling its sleeves up above his elbows rather than changing it altogether.  
  
Not caring what he looked like at that point, he'd crawled into bed and done his best to sleep, but the slumber had been fitful and dream-filled. They weren't restful dreams, either. He did have those sometimes. Dreams of a childhood with a loving mother who had doted upon her highly intelligent, if slightly odd, son. Dreams of a young adulthood filled with constant learning and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Dreams of sharing a future with a tall brunette who occupied more than her fair share of his thoughts, both waking and subconscious.  
  
But at least those were pleasant dreams. Even if he awoke with a sense of yearning for that which he could not have, the dreams themselves had been happy. The ones he'd had today had been anything but, which explained why he was now lying on his sofa idly flipping through television stations. He was bone tired, and he knew that the one thing he needed above all else was rest. But he did not want to deal with the dreams. So he searched among the 70-some-odd channels for something to occupy his mind until exhaustion could take its toll and numb him into a dreamless oblivion. 

XXXXXXXXX

With a sense of accomplishment, Sara finally sat back to survey her handiwork – the newly reorganized case files. At least she'd had a productive night. The files were in better shape now than they had been when she'd taken them, with every piece of evidence now catalogued in an orderly fashion. Unfortunately, in her exhaustive look at all of the evidence in each case, she'd still turned up nothing that would get them any closer to catching the people who had committed these crimes. _But, hey, at least the files look better_, she thought with a small smile.  
  
She had no idea how long she'd been in the same position until she tried to move her stiff muscles. Her hands involuntarily moved to the small of her back to knead the aching tissue, and she carefully swiveled her neck in a 360-degree angle to eliminate the soreness. Glancing up at the clock, she was shocked to find that it was almost 3 a.m. – she'd been in here for nearly five hours! Seeing Sara's distraught look upon her arrival at the lab, Catherine had been nice enough to give her some uninterrupted time to straighten out the disheveled files, and she was certainly grateful. But she was equally certain Cath had never expected her to spend five hours on what essentially amounted to grunt work when there were real cases to be solved. She found herself feeling especially glad that Grissom had the night off. _No way he would have been quite so understanding_, she thought.  
  
Heaving a sigh as the image of her disapproving supervisor crossed her mind, she grabbed up the stack of files and headed for his office. He'd told her she could take them home as long as she brought them back the next night. Her grip on the files tightened as she neared his office door, not wanting to repeat the same mistake twice. There was no way she was going to spend another five hours rearranging these files. Making sure they were secure in her left hand, she opened the door with her right and entered the dimly lit room. Knowing his office by heart, she didn't bother with the light, instead walking confidently to a corner on the left side of the room where she deposited the files atop several others.  
  
Putting them down bothered her more than she expected. Of course, it always drove her crazy to leave cases unsolved, but this was something more than that. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. She was missing something, some clue that would shed some light on one of them. It nagged at her, this sort of fuzzy specter at the edge of her mind. She could see it in her peripheral vision but, as soon as she turned to look at it directly, it escaped her view. What really disturbed her was that she knew she had seen it in the files and just couldn't place it. She continued to stare at the pile, as though it would somehow magically clarify her muddled thoughts.  
  
The insistent ring of her cell phone startled her out of her reverie. Her mind still somewhat preoccupied, she absently unclipped the phone from her belt and, flipping it open, brought it to her ear. "Sidle."  
  
"Hey, it's Brass. Got a DB for ya. Cath said you were the only one not tied up at the moment. She'll come help out as soon as she and Nicky finish up at the Bellagio." Sara grimaced at the mention of the high-profile burglary at the upscale hotel. She was only too happy to have been left out of that one.  
  
"Yeah, I'm free. Where are you?" Sara replied, the elusive clue all but forgotten as she reached for a stack of Post-It notes on Grissom's desk. She quickly jotted down the address and tore off the top sheet. "OK," she responded. "Be there in 20."  
  
"'K," Brass replied. "See ya."

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom finally settled on a PBS rendition of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ for his sleep-inducing fare. The Shakespearean comedy was lighthearted enough to take his mind off the last case he'd worked, and the production itself was quite good. He found himself grinning at Puck's antics and more than a little impressed at the actor's portrayal. There was even a time or two when he laughed aloud.  
  
He was completely engrossed in the program, so much so that he didn't even notice as fatigue overcame him. His eyelids grew heavier, and his blinks became longer. When the show ended at 3:00 am, one utterly exhausted entomologist lay asleep on the couch, the remote control hanging loosely from a right hand draped over the side of the sofa and his left arm thrown carelessly above his head. In sleep, he looked substantially less like a brilliant scientist and considerably more like an innocent boy, but there was no one nearby to make such an observation or to theorize on the implications of such evidence. It simply was what it was.

XXXXXXXXX

"Thank God...," Sara muttered, opening the door to her Denali. Her kit lay in the passenger seat, right next to the duffel bag. Now that she wasn't quite so panicked at the thought of losing it, she could remember what had happened. Upon her arrival at the lab, not wanting to risk a repeat performance of the "Scattered Files Show," she had left the kit and bag in the SUV, with every intention of making a second trip outside to retrieve them. Once she'd gotten inside, though, work had consumed her thoughts, as it had so many other nights, and the kit and bag had been forgotten until this very moment.  
  
The thought of losing her field kit had caused her heart to sink in her chest – she'd spent years accumulating the tools of her trade, and everything therein was just as she wanted it. And that didn't even take into account the sentimental value of a few of the contents. Climbing into the Denali's cab, she started the engine before giving in to the absurd urge to inspect the contents of the silver box. Knowing full well she was being paranoid, that no one except her could have any possible use for what was encased in its metallic innards, she nevertheless allowed herself to unlatch it. Running her fingers lightly over a few of the more precious elements inside, she sighed as a wave of relief washed over her. Everything was present and accounted for. _Whew_.  
  
As she put the truck into gear and pulled out of the lab's parking lot, a wistful smile took up residence on her face, and she allowed her thoughts to drift to the memories invoked by the items she had just touched. Hanging from the metallic lid was a small silver pendant on a beaded chain. The pendant bore the image of St. Catherine, a scientist who lived in the Middle Ages, a woman who was not afraid to fight – and die – for what she believed in. The jewelry had once belonged to a woman who had been a victim of a violent crime committed by a juvenile offender, and it had been given to Sara by the woman's husband following her death nearly two years after the assault. Pam had been a fighter, but her death had come a year too late for any real justice to be meted out. Sara still remembered what the husband had said as he handed her the necklace: "Pam would have wanted you to have this. You're belligerent, just like she was. She would have liked you." Sara took that as a compliment. A huge one. That pendant reminded her of exactly why she did this job, especially on the days when the pressure and the stress and the injustice and the inhumanity threatened to overwhelm her. She was belligerent, and Pam would have liked her. It always brought a smile to her face. She would have liked Pam, too.  
  
As she exited I-15 and drove along meandering residential streets, she allowed her mind to drift to the gyroscope bolted into the back of her field kit. Its small glass cylinder held an interior plastic tube that contained an iron and mercury compound, and the entire device was suspended in a plastic frame. The metallic mixture, much like a compass, was sensitive to magnetic forces, rocking gently in a perpetual motion induced by the earth itself. She felt a warmth flood through her soul at the memory of her mother's gentle smile as she handed Sara the physics anomaly that had been a gift for her college graduation. The elder Sidle had fairly beamed with pride as Sara strode towards her decked out in cap and gown and had reverently fingered the gold lettering on the crimson diploma cover, whispering, "I only wish your father had lived to see this." Sara could only give her a bittersweet smile in response – she wished that, too.  
  
Then, suddenly remembering the gift, her mother had looked over her shoulder at her older brother David, who held the package with its attached card out to Sara. "Sweetheart," said her mom. "You know I'm not smart, but I do know a thing or two about life. I'm so very proud of you and all that you've become. And I know that you'll always be successful in all that you do."  
  
Even more so than the gift that meant so much to her, the card had taken Sara's breath away. She'd long since committed it to memory, recalling its words whenever she needed advice. "Sara Elizabeth," it began. "On this day in which you end one chapter in your life and begin a new one, I couldn't imagine any better gift to bestow upon you than a sense of what is important in life. So look at this instrument as your sense of balance. Your life, like this gyroscope, is composed of two vastly different elements that must complement each other for that balance to be achieved."  
  
"The iron is a strong solid metal, but malleable to a variety of outside forces and easily moved in whatever direction those forces choose to pull it. But it's not substantial enough to move the cylinder on its own. It represents your career, your vocation, your job, your work, whether that's solving mathematical equations or raising children. It's important, and it can control your life if you let it. But it can't cause motion by itself."  
  
"Which brings us to the mercury. A heavy liquid metal that molds itself around the iron, allowing it to move. It is, in and of itself, not susceptible to the outside forces that bring motion. But, when it envelops the iron, it allows your life to live and breathe – and move. The mercury represents the personal side of your life – the relationships you develop with other people, the friendships, the romance, the substance. It's vital but can weigh you down and keep you stagnant if you allow it to do so. And there's no motion with mercury alone."  
  
"So, honey, I'm sure you know which metal you seem to have an overabundance of at the present. Since you have so much iron, please try to get as much mercury as you can, even though you don't seem to have a great desire for it at the moment. In the years ahead, you will begin to realize that you need them both. I love you so much and look forward to watching your life in perpetual motion for many years to come. Love, Mom."  
  
Her mom had been right about one thing. She did know a thing or two about life. She was, without a doubt, the single wisest person Sara knew. But she'd been wrong about something else. It wasn't that Sara hadn't _wanted_ more mercury in her life, just that she had never known how to _get _it.  
  
She blinked away a sudden mistiness as she veered onto a tree-lined cul-de-sac nestled in a suburban neighborhood that looked too peaceful to ever be affected by violence. Only the flashing red-and-blue lights of Las Vegas' finest served to mar a landscape that had been painted on a canvas of gentle serenity. She came to a stop behind Brass' unmarked vehicle and, grabbing the kit, got out of the truck.  
  
**TBC....  
**


	2. Portraits of Grief

**A/N:** Before anyone corrects me, I know that the Bible actually says the _love_ of money is the root of all evil (not money itself), but I figure none of the CSI characters is really a Biblical scholar. Except maybe Grissom. And he's not around. :)  
  
**Spoilers:** "Revenge is Best Served Cold"  
  
**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1. Also, I don't own Bank of America – unfortunately for me! :) Oh, and I have to credit _Bad Boys 2_ for one of Catherine's lines. I just thought it was really funny. :)  
  
**Chapter 2  
**  
Muttering "excuse me" as politely as she could, Sara made her way through the small crowd of horror-stricken neighbors who had gathered near the crime scene tape. Smiling in gratitude at the young officer who held it for her, she ducked under the strip of shiny yellow plastic and looked enquiringly at him. He gave her a shy grin of his own and pointed to where Brass stood waiting for her at the entrance to the house. She walked in the general direction of the detective, carefully assessing her surroundings as she went.  
  
The two-story Cape Cod could have been a model home for _Better Homes and Gardens_. The lower level was brick, and white vinyl siding framed the upper portion of the house, the flashing lights from the police cruisers bathing the entire scene in an eerie glow. The front porch, which was small but large enough to hold a swing on its right-hand side, was slightly off-center, with the bulk of it extending towards the garage on the right. The front door was slightly to the left of the center of the residence and stood directly in front of brick stairs that led up to the iron-railed porch. The beam from her flashlight fell on colorful flowers interspersed between bushes on either side of the brick porch and, while the landscaping was minimal, it was tastefully done. The two-car garage on the right side of the home had both doors closed, and a bicycle leaned against the leftmost of the two. Shining the light through the garage door window, Sara noticed a BMW parked on that side and a minivan on the right.  
  
Turning around to head for the front door, she was surprised to see Catherine strolling up the driveway. "What are you doing here? I thought you were tied up at the Bellagio," she called to the older woman.  
  
"I was. But we were almost finished when Brass called, and it's not that far away. So here I am."  
  
"Not that far away, huh? It's a good half an hour, and that doesn't take traffic into account," Sara grinned.  
  
Catherine snorted. "I know a shortcut."  
  
"No, you just drive like a bat out of hell. Nicky told me about that race car case a while back. Said you blew him away."  
  
"Don't hate the player, Sara. Hate the game," Catherine retorted with a smirk. "You know, I could teach you a trick or two about how to handle the uniforms that pull you over. A PD badge and a well-placed hair flip can work wonders."  
  
"Ladies?" Brass interrupted. "If you're finished discussing the merits of abusing the system," he said with a sideways glance at Catherine, "I'd be happy to tell you about our 419." He did his dead-level best to maintain a stern demeanor, but the upward curvature at the sides of his mouth gave him away.  
  
Sara gave him a bemused look, but Catherine shot her eyes to Sara's in feigned surprise. "You mean you haven't gotten the scoop yet?" she grinned.  
  
"Well, I figured you'd want me to check out the perimeter, since I've recently become an expert in that field," she replied, with an airy tone that almost covered the trace bitterness in her words. Almost.  
  
Catherine picked up on it and chose a humorous path that, she hoped, would maintain her rapport with one colleague without betraying another. She had no real desire to be caught in the middle of their issues. "Do I look like a stodgy, middle-aged guy with a bug fetish?" she snorted.  
  
The joke had its desired effect as Brass laughed out loud, and Sara cocked her head sideways. "Well, now that you mention it,..." she began.  
  
Catherine rounded on her with a mock glare that cut off the remainder of the sentence. "If you answer that question in the affirmative, you'll find out just how much like him I can be!" That comment elicited another laugh from Brass and a full-blown grin from Sara, who held up her hands in surrender.  
  
"In that case, no comment," she smiled at her blonde coworker.  
  
"That's what I thought," Catherine replied. Turning on her heel with a backwards glance at Brass, she started up the sidewalk towards the house. "What have we got?"  
  
"Vic is Marilyn Ellis, 48," he responded. "Her husband,..." he flipped through his memo pad, "...um, John Ellis...had been in New York on business for the last few days. He took a cab home from the airport and found the little missus... well,... a little the worse for wear." The dark humor belied his grim expression.  
  
"Why didn't she pick him up at the airport?" Catherine inquired.  
  
"His connection in Atlanta was delayed. Severe weather," he supplied quickly, upon seeing her skeptical look. "He was supposed to get in at 8 pm. Wound up landing at 12:30. Said he called the wife and told her he'd get a cab. Should be easy enough to verify."  
  
"What kind of business?" asked Sara.  
  
"The high-dollar kind. Executive vice president for Bank of America. He was closing the deal on some merger."  
  
Catherine let out a low whistle. "High finance. You know, money is the root of all evil."  
  
"Maybe so, but I wouldn't argue with a little more evil in my life," Brass chuckled. Nodding at the burly officer who stood at the front door, he led the way into the house.  
  
Stepping into the foyer, Sara observed her surroundings with a practiced eye. Dining room on the left, kitchen directly ahead through a darkened hallway, what was probably the master bedroom to the right. Her eyes flickered across the staircase on that side, and she asked a question she already knew the answer to. "They got kids?"  
  
"Yeah," he replied, flipping to another page in his notebook. "Three. 14-year-old son and two daughters, 12 and 7. Jack, Rachel, and Madeline."  
  
"Where were they?" Catherine asked with more than a little concern. No child should have to witness something as awful as a parent's murder.  
  
"Jack left for football camp up at Lake Tahoe this morning. The girls are in Phoenix with their grandmother. The vic drove them down and just came back today. Mr. Ellis has this week off, and they were supposed to start their second honeymoon. Too bad," Brass said sincerely. Wiping a tired hand across his face, he sighed. These sorts of cases were the worst. Usually, he suspected the husband first but, for some reason, he really believed this guy was telling the truth. Mr. Ellis' grief had just struck him as real. The safe haven he'd tried to create for his family had been shattered, and he now had to pick up the pieces and be strong for his kids. Life would never be the same for them again.  
  
"Yeah," Catherine agreed. "Where's the body?"  
  
"Master bedroom," Brass replied, jerking a thumb to the right.  
  
Catherine was feeling generous tonight and didn't mind allowing Sara to be primary on this case. She'd be fine walking around the kids' rooms seeing if there was any evidence there. She eyed the younger CSI with a wicked grin, knowing before she asked the question what the answer would be. "Body or perimeter?"  
  
But Sara wasn't listening. Her eyes remained focused on the staircase or, to be more precise, the wall above it. Pictures lined every square inch of it. Mrs. Ellis must have driven her family crazy with her sentimentality. It seemed that every milestone event in their history was catalogued in photographic form on that wall leading to the upper level. A teenaged boy looking uncomfortable in a suit and holding the hand of an equally uncomfortable-looking teenaged girl in a dress. An adorable little girl in a tutu at a ballet recital. A man on a picnic blanket surrounded by three children who all looked adoringly at him while he gazed lovingly at the photographer, and Sara could only assume Mrs. Ellis had been behind that camera.  
  
But it was the photograph in the middle that really demanded her attention. A professionally done family portrait showed the adult Ellises seated in the center surrounded by their children. Jack stood behind them, with Madeline seated on her father's lap and Rachel standing next to her mother. Everyone was smiling genuinely, and Sara could see the love for each other portrayed in their facial expressions. She gasped quietly as a nearly crippling wave of loss washed over her. _This shouldn't have happened. This was a happy home, the kind of childhood you could only hope to have and, suddenly, brutally, senselessly, it's torn apart._ All of a sudden, she didn't want to see this woman's body. She didn't want to see anyone's body. Not right now.  
  
"Sara?" Catherine asked gently, concerned at the grief that suddenly clouded her face.  
  
"Perimeter," she answered the earlier question. Turning abruptly, she moved into the dining room to get away from the piercing stares of the family in the portrait, missing the stunned glances her colleagues exchanged in her wake. With a worried sigh, Catherine turned towards the master bedroom, Brass following closely at her heels.  
  
**TBC... **


	3. Finding What's Out of Place

**A/N:** Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed this – you're the best! It's amazing what a little encouragement can do for one's motivation. :)  
  
**Spoilers:** None really  
  
**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1. And – thank God! – I don't own "Hello Kitty." The inspiration for that little tidbit came from a gift of "Hello Kitty" pajama bottoms a friend of mine got this weekend. Too funny. :)  
  
**Chapter 3  
**  
Stepping quickly into the formal dining room, Sara stood for a second, waiting to see if Catherine and her motherly instincts would follow. When she heard footsteps retreating in the opposite direction, she let out a sigh and leaned against the wall. Trying to compose herself, she closed her eyes and focused on regaining her professional demeanor. _Don't do this, Sara. It was just a family picture. This is really not the appropriate place or time for your personal baggage.  
_  
But the memories came anyway. She squeezed her eyes closed tightly in a valiant effort to prevent the unbidden mental images, but it was no use. She thought of the last family portrait she'd been a part of. She was 17, and she and David had both complained so much that their mother had broken down in tears and their father had threatened to throw them both out of the house for making her cry. They had managed to smile sappily enough for the picture, but Sara knew they had all been internally seething when it was taken. One week later, her father's sudden death from a heart attack had caught them all by surprise. The irony of the whole situation was almost laughable now. Sara could still remember her mother's words right before the tears started flowing. _"All I want is one picture of my whole family before my kids move out and leave us." _ Who knew it would be her husband that would leave first? To this day, Sara felt guilty about the grief they'd given their parents over that stupid picture. She could only hope the Ellis children wouldn't look back on theirs with the same sense of self-reproach.  
  
Shaking her head and forcing her mind onto the task at hand, she looked around the room. _I'm looking for anything out of place_, she told herself. That was her evidence mantra. Find what _shouldn't_ be there, and follow it to the criminal. The problem was, everything in this room seemed to belong. The plush, off-white carpeting was deep and would have left good foot impressions, but the only ones she could see were her own. She mentally berated herself for stepping on this kind of flooring without looking for that sort of thing first, knowing it was her own agitated mind that had caused such a rookie mistake. But there had been no harm done, so she photographed the room, ensuring that she included photos of her own footprints on the carpet. She had to be sure to document that.  
  
Eying the thin layer of dust on the table, she idly wondered if the Ellis family had a maid. If so, either she wasn't very thorough, or she hadn't been there in a few days. A bank executive could certainly afford a maid, but that didn't guarantee one. Maybe Mrs. Ellis did her own housework. _That would be somewhat refreshing_, Sara thought with a smile. She could ask about the maid when they questioned Mr. Ellis.  
  
The carpet had obviously been vacuumed since the last time anyone had been in the room, but Sara had no idea whether that had been recently. She made a mental note to grab the vacuum cleaner bag when she found it.  
  
Finding nothing else in the dining room, she slung the camera around her neck and grabbed up the kit, summoning up her courage to brave the stairs and its wall of pictures. She wanted to tackle the kids' rooms before finishing up downstairs.

XXXXXXXXX

"What's going on with her?" Brass asked quietly as soon as they were out of Sara's earshot. "She looks like somebody just ran over her puppy."  
  
Catherine sighed and answered honestly. "I don't know, Jim. There have been a couple of cases lately that have kind of gotten to her. Maybe it's the first stages of burnout."  
  
"Let's hope not."  
  
"Yeah," she agreed. "We really need her around. Plus, I hate the idea of her doing this to herself. I'll try to talk to her later. Maybe she just needs to get some things off her chest."  
  
"Good idea," Brass concurred.  
  
"In the meantime, though, wow, nice digs." She let out a low whistle of appreciation. The master bedroom was large, and the oversized canopy bed in the center dominated the room. The comforter was some sort of African jungle fare, and beiges and blacks in the drapes and throw rugs gave the décor a decidedly safari-like feel. Bronze giraffes, lions, and elephants were prominently displayed on various surfaces throughout the room, and mosquito netting over the bed completed the picture.  
  
"Somebody wants to be on safari," Brass commented.  
  
"Ya think?" Catherine laughed. "I actually kind of like it, though. Well, except for the mosquito net. That seems a bit over the top."  
  
"Yeah, and I think the jungle animals would creep me out a little bit," he replied with a shudder, earning himself a laugh from Catherine.  
  
"Seriously, though, Jim, the house is nice but not exactly what I'd expect for an executive vice-president of a large financial institution."  
  
"Well, he supports three kids and a stay-at-home wife. College funds, mortgage, active kids, two vehicles. Expenses probably pile up."  
  
"Yeah, especially if he's also got a mistress on the side. Can you check out his financial records?"  
  
Brass smiled tiredly. "Sure. First thing tomorrow. He doesn't strike me as the philandering type, though. Really seemed broken up, you know?"  
  
"They always do," she said with a sarcastic smile. Her tone softened at his wince. "We just have to check out every avenue, Jim."  
  
"I know. Will do," he responded with a smile. "Just hoping he turns out to be a good guy."  
  
"Me, too." She sincerely nodded her agreement as she glanced down at the hardwood floors, scanning for footprints. There were none. "Hey, I didn't see any sign of forced entry at the front. What about the back door? Or the garage?" she questioned.  
  
"Nope. Neither. Both locked and not pried open."  
  
Looking at the body of Marilyn Ellis lying on the floor by the canopy bed, she voiced her thoughts. "So she knew her killer. At least well enough to open the door."

XXXXXXXXX

Sara cautiously climbed the stairs, ensuring she wasn't missing any important piece of evidence and looking closely for anything out of place. She examined the pictures carefully, looking for smudges or anything else out of the ordinary. She found nothing but took pictures anyway, just to ensure herself she had been thorough.  
  
She had nearly made it to the top of the stairs when the door opened to allow David Phillips entrance to the home. Seeing her on the staircase, he flashed a shy smile. She grinned and waved in return, and David lowered his head to hide his blush as he moved toward the master suite. She pursed her lips in amusement as she returned to the task at hand.  
  
There was little in the way of evidence to be found in any of the children's rooms, although she did discover that Madeline Ellis was the proud owner of the largest "Hello Kitty" collection west of the Rockies. _No one should have this much whiskered kitten crap_, she had thought upon entering the room. Jack's room turned up little besides the knowledge that he played the guitar and, like every other teenaged boy in America, wanted little more than to be left alone, as evidenced by the prominent "Keep Out" sign displayed on his door.  
  
She also ascertained that Rachel Ellis had apparently entered that god-awful, prepubescent hormonal phase that caused her to be interested in a different boy every week. Countless flowery renditions of "I love Hunter" (or Parker... or Colby...) had lined the insides of her notebooks. Sara idly wondered if her own mother had fought the laughter when she had come home gushing about her latest adolescent crush, and she speculated on the latest trend in naming male children with surnames rather than normal first names like John or Michael or Gil. _Gil? Where did that come from?_ A mental image of herself writing, "I love Gil," in great sprawling cursive on the top of her supervisor evaluation form sprang unbidden to the forefront of her thoughts. _I'd just have to be sure to use a little heart in the word "love,"_ she thought. _That would really freak him out. Yeah, Sara, because that little heart is the only thing about it that would freak him out. Who am I kidding – that whole thing would freak **me** out, let alone him! He'd probably run screaming from the room or something. _But, for some reason, the whole idea had her grinning like an idiot. _I think I'm suffering some weird mental breakdown, but at least it's funny._

XXXXXXXXX

Catherine documented the positioning of the body with multiple snapshots and flashed David a quick wave as he entered the room. As he took in his surroundings, she smiled at his slightly flabbergasted expression. "What do ya think, David?"  
  
She and Brass both laughed at his response. "I think I'm in the mood to bag an elephant."  
  
"Never knew you to be so macho," she purred, grinning at the blush that developed at her tone. "It becomes you." He merely smiled shyly in response.  
  
She returned to her photos, focusing this time on the pantyhose that bound the woman's wrists. Once finished with the pictures, she peered closely at the restraints. "Hey, Jim,..." she started, reaching for the nylon material and hooking a gloved finger under the bindings. Rather than holding the victim's wrists tightly together, the hose hung loosely from the joints, almost as if it was placed there as an afterthought. "What do you make of this?"  
  
The detective looked closely. "I'd say our perp didn't need to restrain her. Or she did it to herself."  
  
"So why would he? Or why would she, for that matter?" Catherine furrowed her brow in thought. Brass merely shrugged, not knowing the answer and realizing the question was a rhetorical one anyway.  
  
Within minutes, she bagged the pantyhose and turned to the young coroner. "He's all yours." David nodded and moved towards the body, taking out a thermometer to obtain a liver temperature.  
  
Sensing Catherine's silent question, he spoke as he assessed the body. "I don't see any obvious cause of death. No sign of sexual assault. No trauma. No bullet entry wounds. So my preliminary guess would be either natural causes or poisoning. And, judging from the restraints, I'd lean toward poisoning, although I guess she could have tied herself up and then died from natural causes. We'll know more once we do the post."  
  
Catherine nodded and, moving toward the back of the room, spoke over her shoulder to them. "I'm gonna check out the bathroom."

XXXXXXXXX

Sara made her way back downstairs, stopping at the hall closet to retrieve the vacuum cleaner bag. A quick look in the half-bath in the hall turned up nothing out of the ordinary. She was quickly growing frustrated with the lack of evidence.  
  
Walking through a second entrance into the dining room, she turned to the right to go into the den. She stepped down into the sunken room, noticing with some dismay that the carpet was not as thick and did not afford the opportunity for footprints. The cozy room was tidy but lived-in. A doll rested on the sofa, and a large pair of tennis shoes peeked out from behind the recliner in the corner. She eyed the oak coffee table with a faint hope and, within minutes, had pulled several full prints and a few partials from its wooden surface. Maybe their killer had put his hands on this table, but she knew that was a long shot.  
  
The den processed, she moved into the kitchen. Spotting the plate, glass, and fork in the sink, she bagged each one separately. _Those are out of place in an otherwise clean house_, she thought, _but it's probably just the remnants of Mrs. Ellis' last meal_. That thought was sobering, and she pressed her lips together grimly.  
  
Turning for one last look at the kitchen, she saw the piece of paper lying on the table. _Probably just a note to her husband, but that's definitely out of place._ Her heartbeat sped up as she approached the table, and she casually wondered if she was getting her hopes up for nothing. When she unfolded the crisp page, she realized that was most definitely not the case.

XXXXXXXXX

From her perch over the bathroom sink, Catherine heard her first. "Brass?" came the voice, so weak and uncertain that it made the older CSI shiver.  
  
"Sara?" she called, moving quickly towards the kitchen. Brass heard Catherine's question and followed.  
  
"Hey, Cath," Sara responded, trying to regain her composure. "Found something." She tried to smile as she held the paper out to her colleague, but what resulted was more of a grimace.  
  
Taking the note from her trembling fingers, Catherine looked down, Brass coming to stand behind her shoulder. As her colleague read aloud, Sara could feel the blinding fear growing inside her with each word.  
  
"Dear Las Vegas Crime Lab (and especially Agent Sidle),  
  
I have so enjoyed working with you on our special cases. I hope that  
you will appreciate this one as much as I have. I feel that it is  
some of my best work yet.  
  
As for you, Agent Sidle, I do hope you will be assigned to this case.  
You remind me of a bloodhound, relentless in your pursuit. I so  
appreciated that about you the last time. And I have even more  
special plans for you in the future.  
  
Sincerely,  
Kim  
  
They both looked at her then, her fear reflected in their eyes. Brass reacted first. "Come on, Sara. You're off this case, and I'm getting you out of here."  
  
Despite her terror, his paternalistic attitude rubbed her the wrong way. "You're not my supervisor!"  
  
"No, but I am," said Catherine. Raising her hand when Sara started to argue that point, she conceded, "At least for the night. And Jim's right, Sara, you can't be on this case, and you need to get away from here." Looking at Brass, she said, "I'm calling Warrick in. Get her someplace safe."  
  
With a nod, he took Sara's arm, leading her towards the front door. "Hawkins!" he called to the cop who stood there.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Where's Jenkins?" Brass barked.  
  
"Right here, cap," came the young man's reply from the other side of the front porch.  
  
"You two call in some backup. I want at least two more uniforms here, and one of you needs to stay on Willows until CSI Brown gets here. And keep an eye on the coroner until he gets out of here. Got it?"  
  
Not understanding what had happened but knowing better than to question, they both mutely nodded, and Hawkins picked up his radio to call dispatch. Satisfied that his instructions were being followed, Brass led Sara to his car, warily casting his eyes about looking for suspicious characters. He visibly relaxed when he got her into the front seat. Looking down at her with care and sympathy, he gently asked, "Need anything from your truck before we go?"  
  
Lost in her thoughts, it took her a moment to respond. "Huh? Oh, yeah, my duffel bag," she replied absently. He retrieved it hurriedly before returning to his car and starting the engine.  
  
As they pulled away, Sara's mind was racing, but her thoughts always came back to that note. It was clearly out of place, and that made it the best evidence they had.  
  
**TBC... **


	4. Victory in Battle

**A/N:** I know it's been a while but, unfortunately, real life and that whole nuisance of having to go to work in order to make money for food has gotten in the way of my writing! And, like most others out there, I was pretty disappointed about the recent firings. I did debate not writing any more on this story, but I decided that it made me feel better to write it. So, in your face, CBS! :)  
  
**Spoilers:** "Invisible Evidence," "Strip Strangler," "Stalker"  
  
**Disclaimer:** Are you kidding me? If these characters belonged to me, Nick and Sara would still be on the show. And Nick would probably be godfather to Dr. and Mrs. Grissom's children (Gil and Sara's, that is) by now. :) I also don't own Mr. Schwarzenegger or his gubernatorial abilities either. :)  
  
**Chapter 4: Victory in Battle**  
  
As Brass maneuvered the big Crown Vic back towards the interstate, he watched Sara out of the corner of his eye. On the surface, she seemed unaffected by the events of the evening, her gaze fixed on the road directly ahead. But the tension that seemed to roll off of her in waves betrayed the strong persona she was trying so hard to project.  
  
Deciding to give her some space to cope with the current situation, he kept his own eyes fastened on the road as well, maintaining the uneasy silence between them. It was Sara who broke the peace as soon as they were at full speed on the expressway. "My place is at the next exit."  
  
That surprised him, and he snapped his head around to face her. "What?" he asked incredulously. "I'm not taking you to your place." It came out more harshly than he'd intended, but he didn't amend his statement.  
  
"Huh?" It was Sara's turn to be surprised. "Oh,... um,... I just thought,..." she stammered. Her mind wasn't really functioning at full capacity, and she was desperately trying to comprehend this unexpected turn of events. Slowly, she tried again. "Well, where to, then? The lab?"  
  
Brass sighed tiredly. _She just doesn't get it._ Trying his best to keep the frustration out of his voice, he replied, "No, Sara. Look, whoever wrote that note obviously knows where you work. I can't take you to the lab. And I don't know if he knows where you live, but I'm not taking any chances."  
  
"Fine." Her voice was laced with fatigue and a hint of annoyance. "Just take me to that Holiday Inn out on North Trop."  
  
"Or not," he responded sarcastically. When she looked at him with confusion, he blew out a breath and spoke as patiently as he could. "Listen, I'm trying to protect you. Unfortunately, this wasn't really planned, and I don't have just anyone available at a moment's notice to stay with you. So,..." His voice trailed off. He was pretty sure how receptive she'd be to his idea for her accommodations for the rest of the day, and he preferred to postpone facing her wrath for as long as possible. He unconsciously pressed his foot a little more firmly onto the accelerator, trying to speed up their passage.  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him then. A suspicion was beginning to form in the back of her mind, and each passing mile made it more likely. She pursed her lips as dread slowly gripped her, and she spoke in a clipped tone as he veered onto an exit ramp that further confirmed her fears. "Brass, where are you taking me?"  
  
There was a conciliatory air to his response, but the words were unapologetic. "To Grissom's."  
  
"What?!?" She gaped at him in disbelief. _Sure, that might protect me physically, but what about my emotional well-being? There's no way I'll survive this.  
_  
"Sara," he spoke in a soft voice intended to calm her frazzled nerves. "Nick's at the lab, Cath and 'Rick are already at the scene, and I've got to go back down there. Gil has the night off. This is the best I can come up with."  
  
She knew in her head that he was right, that she was being completely unreasonable, that this was the only logical solution. But her heart screamed otherwise and, at the moment, it was the much louder body part. She opened her mouth to protest, but his patience was at an end, and his tone this time broached no argument. "I'm doing what's best for your safety. This is not a negotiation."  
  
The echo of her supervisor's words from a few months earlier, while not registering with Brass, was not lost on her, and she sat back in her seat. "Shouldn't you at least give him the courtesy of a phone call to let him know we're coming? I mean, it's 5:00 in the morning," she stated quietly.  
  
"Too late. We're here."  
  
Looking up to see a row of darkened townhouses, she sighed in resignation. When Brass brought the car to a stop, she picked up the duffel bag and reached for the door handle, only to have him grab her wrist. "Wait."  
  
Coming around to the passenger side of the vehicle, he opened her door with caution, eyeing their surroundings warily. She rolled her eyes as she stepped out, carefully corralling the urge to tell him to stop acting like Schwarzenegger. The mental image of an overly muscular Brass in sunglasses saying, "I'll be baaack," nearly made her giggle, and she suddenly realized how very close to a mental precipice she was. That thought brought her back to reality quickly, and she sighed heavily as she adjusted the duffel bag's strap onto her right shoulder.  
  
He lightly grasped her left elbow, steering her protectively toward the building directly in front of them. She climbed the stairs slowly, each step seeming to progressively drain her of precious energy until, just as she felt she could not go on, they at last reached the top and stood in front of Grissom's townhouse. Without releasing his hold on her arm, the detective raised his free hand and rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles.  
  
Sara thought back to her only other visit to Grissom's home three years earlier. He'd lived in a different part of town then, but she had always figured that, while the outer location may change, what was inside would remain the same. She remembered his home being just like his office – filled with the things he loved and so distinctly Grissom. It was comforting in a strange way. Just knowing that he was so constant had made her – heck, _still_ made her – feel steady and secure, as if he were her anchor. She'd often wondered what it would be like to return to his house in a personal capacity, rather than the professional one that had brought her there years ago. Uninvited and unannounced was certainly not how she'd envisioned her return visit, and she felt a wave of remorse wash over her.  
  
Though she kept her eyes focused on a speck of dirt on the door in front of her, she could feel Brass' surreptitious glances in her direction. She knew he was concerned about her and, on some level, she was grateful. But his worry only served to highlight her lack of control over the current situation, a fact made all the more disconcerting by her own history of complete self-reliance, and she found herself fighting the petulant urge to bark at him to stop treating her like a child. Seemigly sensing her growing irritation, he refocused his attention on the door, rapping his knuckles against the wooden structure slightly louder this time.  
  
That knock roused Grissom from his dreamless slumber. Opening his eyes in confusion, it took him a moment to realize what had wakened him. Still slightly disoriented, he picked the remote control up from the floor as he pushed himself off the sofa, flipping off the television before dropping the remote onto the coffee table and heading towards the front door. As he padded across the room, he glanced down at his watch, only to find his brain too sleep-addled to comprehend the meaning of the numbers on the digital display. Not awake enough to think about danger, he unlocked the deadbolt and removed the chain without a second thought, throwing the door open wide in an effort to solve the mystery of who was bothering him at this ungodly hour.  
  
Sara jumped when the door sprang open suddenly. Her eyes flew to the culprit, and she involuntarily sucked in a breath at the sight of her disheveled supervisor. His normally conservative hair was an unruly mass of curls, his unbuttoned shirt did not match the shorts he wore, and his feet were bare. Only one word sprang to her mind at the sight of him: adorable. She was struck by how much he resembled a sleepy little boy, and a smile came to her face when he reinforced that thought by rubbing a fist over his right eye.  
  
An increasingly uneasy Brass eyed Grissom inquiringly and, when the latter made no move to allow them into his home, decided to take the initiative himself. "Gil, can we come in?"  
  
"Huh? Oh,... yeah, sure." Opening the door wider, he stepped to the side to allow them access, not really understanding why they were here and vaguely wondering if this was all a dream.  
  
Brass almost smiled at the sight of an obviously bewildered Gil Grissom. Under different circumstances, he'd love to have this moment on video. It was rare to see the man confused.  
  
Closing the door behind them, Grissom turned to face his visitors, a questioning look on his face. Sara had become fascinated with the strap on her bag, and he found himself fascinated with watching her.  
  
Brass observed her with concern before turning to face his friend and getting right to the crux of the matter. "Gil, a threatening note was left at a crime scene. It mentioned Sara."  
  
"What?!?" He snapped his eyes to Jim's before they returned involuntarily to Sara. Thanks to a sudden adrenaline rush, he was now fully awake.  
  
"Yeah," the older man said, swiping a big mitt across his face tiredly. "We think the perp left it. Needless to say, I didn't really want to leave her alone, and I don't have many options here. Can she stay with you until I can arrange some police protection?" Once again, he got straight to the point.  
  
"Of course," Grissom responded, his eyes still trained on Sara. He remembered only too vividly when Nick had been the target of one of the criminals they were chasing. The younger man almost hadn't survived. Grissom's heart pounded in his chest at the thought that something similar could happen to Sara. _Over my dead body_, he thought grimly.  
  
"Good," Brass replied. "Hey, I've gotta get back to the scene. I'll give you a call when I've made some different arrangements." He turned his head toward Sara, speaking gently. "Take care, OK, Sara?"  
  
She merely nodded without looking at him, keeping her attention locked on the duffel bag's strap. He sighed, turning towards the door. "Keep an eye on her, Gil."  
  
Grissom nodded as he opened the door to let Brass out of his townhouse. Closing the door and sliding the deadbolt and chain home with his back toward his new houseguest, Grissom took a deep breath as he tried to calm his adrenaline-charged pulse and placed both hands against the door in a desperate bid to steady them. Slowly, he turned to face her, feeling suddenly unsure of how to handle the situation.  
  
Sara kept her eyes carefully fixed on the floor as her hands worried with the strap from her duffel bag. The fear she had felt when she'd first seen the note had almost paralyzed her, and the thought that she could be crippled by her own fear scared her more than any criminal's deeds ever could. When they'd first entered Grissom's house, the fear had returned, only to be made stronger when she heard Brass' words to her boss. '_...threatening note... didn't really want to leave her alone... police protection..._' Even the rush of anger she felt at being discussed as if she weren't in the room wasn't a strong enough emotion to overcome the fear. Only the strap seemed to keep it at bay.  
  
The strap was her Novocaine. If she focused on that, it made the pain of everything else lessen. All the rest was just... a drill. So she fretted with the nylon strap. Tightening it, then loosening it again. Running her fingers across the rough material. Using her fingernails to pick at some imaginary knot in the fabric. _Need more Novocaine. More Novocaine. More Novocaine.  
_  
Grissom watched her, his dread growing with each passing moment that her hands remained steadfastly fastened on that strap. "Sara..." He spoke gently, like someone trying to calm an injured animal.  
  
The tenderness in his voice was very nearly her undoing. She swallowed convulsively against the lump that formed in her throat. She felt the drill cut through the Novocaine, and her fingers worked harder on the imaginary knot. _More Novocaine. Need more Novocaine._ So intense was her concentration on both the strap and the mantra that she did not notice the solitary tear that slipped down her cheek.  
  
But Grissom did. The lone droplet and her frantic fingers ripped into his heart as surely as any knife would, and he longed to wipe away that tear and shelter her with his body against whatever or whoever had caused it. But, just as he was about to give in to that longing, he found himself once again embroiled in the all-too-familiar battle between his dual roles toward Sara – the one he played in his dreams, where he was the one she loved and came home to at night, and the one he played in actuality, where he was an aloof superior forced to keep his distance from her for the sake of their careers.  
  
Struggling to regain control over the situation when all he wanted was to hold her, he drew in a ragged breath. Even as her supervisor, he needed to help her get away from the demons she seemed to be facing. His own raw emotions barely controlled, he spoke again. "Sara, honey, look at me..."  
  
Something in his voice compelled her to obey. Her fingers continued to play with the strap, but she slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. When she did, he saw the one emotion he had never seen there, had never _wanted_ to see there – fear. Grissom had thought he had read every possible emotion in Sara's eyes. Joy, anger, sorrow, excitement, passion, even love. But never fear. Never this... raw terror. Her eyes chilled him to the bone, and he involuntarily shuddered against the cold that gripped his heart. But, suddenly, the battle of wills that constantly raged inside him was stilled. He was torn no more.  
  
Reaching toward the duffel bag with his left hand, he took it from her trembling fingers while wrapping his right arm around her back. Not caring where it fell, he dropped the bag next to them and brought his left hand up to smooth her hair, holding his chin up so that her head would fit securely underneath.  
  
Sara closed her eyes tightly against his chest, her hands instinctively gripping handfuls of his shirt. Without the anesthetic provided by the strap, her thin veneer of control came crashing down around her, and she was barely even aware that she had started crying. All she could feel was the drill, and all it brought with it was pain and fear. And it all threatened to suffocate her.  
  
Turning his head slightly so that he could rest his cheek against the crown of her head, he pulled her more tightly against him as he stroked her hair softly, whispering nonsensical words of comfort as his lips occasionally brushed against the soft strands.  
  
Sara felt the hyperacuity of her senses, as in one who had lost sight or hearing. She casually wondered which of her senses she had lost, but was not surprised to realize she didn't much care. He smelled of soap and toothpaste and something that was uniquely him. His breathing next to her ear was rhythmic and steady, his heartbeat comforting in its even pulse. Her own tears on her tongue tasted of brine and reminded her vaguely of the ocean. His hands caressing her back and hair made her feel more grounded than he would ever know.  
  
"Sara." He spoke her name with such reverence that she felt her eyes prick with tears again. His voice was gentle and laden with emotion. Pulling back slightly from her, he was surprised when she buried her head further into his chest and let go of his shirt to wrap her arms around him, unwilling to leave his sheltering embrace. Dropping a kiss onto the top of her head and doing his best to keep both arms around her, he turned and said gently, "Come on."  
  
Not knowing where they were going, she contented herself with letting him lead her wherever he wished. The thought crossed her mind that she had always let him lead her wherever he wanted her to go, and she figured she always would. At the moment, she didn't care. Not having to think was good.  
  
It wasn't until she felt gentle pressure on her back and a soft voice urging her to lie down that she realized her absent sense had been sight. She hadn't opened her eyes since Grissom had first touched her, not wanting to wake herself if it was some wonderful dream. But she did now that she felt his grip on her loosening. She lifted her eyes to his, unable to control the pleading expression on her face, needing his comfort like she needed her next breath.  
  
Seeming to sense her fears, he held her a little tighter against his side before helping her onto the unmade bed. "Shhhh,..." he soothed. "It's OK. I'm not leaving you." He breathed a sigh of relief when she relaxed next to him and allowed him to push her down onto the sheets.  
  
Some part of her foggy brain registered that this was his bedroom and not a guest room, that Grissom was putting her into his own bed, that he was getting into that bed with her, but there was no sexual connotation to be drawn, and she wanted none. All she wanted from him at the moment was for him to hold her, to make the real world go away.  
  
Climbing into the bed, he pulled her gently against his right side, comforted by the feeling of her head against his shoulder and her right hand on his chest. Pulling the sheet and comforter over them both, he felt his heart swell in his chest at the thought that he was providing some stability for her. His only desire at the moment was to take care of this woman in his arms, and he stroked her hair softly until he heard the slow, rhythmic breathing that informed him that she was asleep.  
  
He tried to extricate himself from her grasp twice, but a whimper and a tightened grip on his shirt caused him to cease his activity. He finally gave in, resigning himself to dealing with her anger when she realized the impropriety of their situation in the morning. Willing himself to stay awake to comfort her, he nevertheless felt the heaviness of his own eyelids pulling him towards sleep. After a valiant effort, he at last surrendered to his subconscious and, as the first rays of the morning sun peeked through the blinds, the two lay asleep, wrapped in each other's arms as though in a lovers' embrace.  
  
**TBC...**


	5. Boiling Point

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews! I really never expected such uplifting comments, and they are greatly appreciated! I must admit that chapter 4 was sort of the original idea and the inspiration for the whole story, so I had a lot of fun writing it. And I'm in a really good mood now that Nick and Sara are back, and all is right in the CSI: world. Rock on, GSR! :) Sorry about the length – this chapter goes forever, but I couldn't think of a better stopping point!  
  
**Spoilers:** None  
  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. And, unfortunately for me, no amount of wishin' will make it so. :)  
  
**Chapter 5: Boiling Point  
**  
Jim Brass had always prided himself on his ability to treat everyone fairly. He felt equal sympathy for the victims and equal outrage for the criminals. He truly believed in the system, always had. He believed that it worked, that it protected the innocent and punished the guilty, that it was just. He knew his role in the whole process and always played his part with consistency.  
  
But this was different. One of their own had been threatened, and he couldn't just take it all in stride. This was personal. How could he be expected to remain objective in this situation? He worked with Sara on an almost daily basis and thought of her as something of a surrogate daughter. This... _animal_... had taken some of her spirit and replaced it with fear, and she would never be the same again. Brass knew that, and he felt the fury building in the pit of his stomach. I_ can't think like this_, he told himself. _She'll be fine. We'll catch this guy and move on_. But he wasn't sure he believed it.  
  
He pulled up in front of the Ellis residence once again, glad to see a second squad car and Warrick's SUV parked out front. Glancing at Sara's Denali as he got out of his car, he patted his pants to make sure he still had the keys he'd gotten from her earlier. He'd get it back to the lab later.  
  
Ducking under the crime scene tape, he looked around, glad to see the gaggle of onlookers had finally dispersed. He knew people were naturally curious, but the types who hung around crime scenes gave him the creeps. Especially at a murder scene. He had never understood the attraction of otherwise normal people to blood and gore. Maybe it was because he'd seen too much of it himself, and it all just struck him as morbid and depressing. Too much senseless loss of life. _Geez, Jim, don't go getting all philosophical_, he chided himself with a quiet chuckle.  
  
Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he took the front porch steps two at a time, coming to a stop before Hawkins. Jerking his thumb toward the second squad car, he questioned the younger man. "Who'd they send ya?"  
  
"Rayford and Monroe," came the burly cop's reply.  
  
"Ah," Brass smiled knowingly. Celia Rayford was a third-year officer who had earned a reputation as much for her tough-as-nails demeanor as for her drop-dead gorgeous looks, a lethal combination in a female cop. "I know Jenkins is happy."  
  
"Aren't we all?" the veteran smirked.  
  
Looking pointedly at the ring on the officer's fleshy left hand, Brass retorted. "Uh oh, you'd better look out. What would Linda think?"  
  
"Hey, cap, I'm married. I ain't dead." The heavy-set officer flashed a toothy grin, earning a quick head-shake and a wry smile from the detective as he moved into the house. It was all bluster. Hawkins was well-known on the force for his devotion to his wife and their four kids.  
  
Closing the door behind him, Brass looked around for his colleagues. Venturing his best guess as to their whereabouts, he headed for the master bedroom. Entering the darkened room, he discovered Catherine waving the ALS across the bed. Nodding to the police officer leaning against the doorframe, he grunted a greeting. "Monroe."  
  
"Hey, cap," the gray-haired man responded easily, a hint of a Southern accent evident in his voice.  
  
"Isn't it past time for you to be off? Must be a lot of demand when Wonder Woman's your partner," Brass teased, his eyes crinkling with mischief.  
  
Not missing a beat, the lanky cop looked at the detective in mock surprise. "What? You mean, all this time that everybody's been requesting us for backup, they were really just wanting Rayford? I thought they were asking for me and my veteran skills!"  
  
Turning off the fluorescent light, Catherine responded from the general direction of the bed. "I'm always happy to have your veteran skills around, Chuck." In the dim lighting, they couldn't make out her expression, but the smile in her voice was unmistakable.  
  
"Well, thank you, Catherine. At least _someone_ around here appreciates me," Monroe replied, with a pointed look at Brass.  
  
Chuckling, the detective couldn't help but respond. "I think Cath appreciates anyone with veteran skills." Though not overtly sexual, the way he said it gave the comment decidedly suggestive undertones.  
  
"Hey!" Catherine retorted in feigned indignation, but the remark elicited a laugh from all three.  
  
Returning to seriousness, Brass turned to Monroe. "Why don't you and Rayford take off? No sense in all of us having to work overtime."  
  
"You don't have to tell me twice," the older man drawled. "The little woman will be shocked to see me home this early. Take care, Catherine."  
  
"See ya, Chuck. And tell Sylvia I said hey."  
  
"Will do." With a quick wave, he ducked out the door in search of his elusive partner.  
  
Flipping on the light switch, Brass walked towards Catherine, who was replacing the bedspread. "Find anything?" he asked.  
  
"Nothing with the ALS. Sheets had just been changed. Guess she was getting ready for the second honeymoon," the blonde replied. "I did find a short brown hair underneath the body. Vic's hair was long and a little darker. Husband has short brown hair, doesn't he?"  
  
The question was innocent enough, but Brass felt himself starting to bristle at her seemingly single-minded efforts to make John Ellis into the perp. Despite the downright rage he felt towards this criminal, he still believed Ellis was just another victim and, try as he might, he felt himself getting defensive. With effort, he forced himself to keep his voice even as he replied. "Yeah."  
  
Trying to gauge his reaction, she probed a little deeper. "Just wondering where he is. I thought it might be nice if we could question him, maybe get a hair sample for comparison."  
  
"He's next door. Spent the night at the neighbor's. They were hoping he could get some sleep there."  
  
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "He stayed at the neighbor's?" she repeated, raising her voice slightly. "I hope he didn't decide to skip out on us." Her tone was more than a little accusing.  
  
The defensiveness was on him full-force now. _She's accusing me of not doing my job? I don't believe this!_ Not bothering to keep the anger out of his voice at this point, he responded. "I had no reason to detain him, Catherine. He wasn't a suspect, and he has the same civil rights as you or I do. Even more so, in my book, since he's a victim just as much as his wife is," he spat.  
  
"Or maybe he's her _killer_," the blonde retorted, her face reddening with her own hot temper. "In which case he's not entitled to _any_ rights."  
  
"You have no evidence to say that! You've got the body of a woman without an obvious cause of death, you've got a note written by _somebody _– we don't know who, and you've got a short brown hair that, let's face it, is not exactly unique. Oh, and before I forget, you've got this apparent vendetta against men that makes us all out to be adulterers and murderers! Eddie was a class A-1 jerk, Cath. But don't paint us all with that same brush!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.  
  
Her face had changed from red to an apoplectic purple. Brass immediately held up his hands in apology. A furious Catherine was not something he wanted to deal with – now or ever. She was a formidable woman on her best days. He certainly didn't want to be on her bad side. But, more than that, he'd been hurtful to a friend, and that was what bothered him the most. "Cath, I am _so_ sorry. That was completely uncalled for. I was way out of line. Guess I'm pretty good at being a class A-1 jerk myself." His voice was quiet, his expression pleading.  
  
The sincerity of his apology erased most of her anger, and she really looked at him then. The weariness and worry of the case had pooled around his eyes, causing them to sag in fatigue, deepening the lines in his forehead and cheeks and making him appear older than he really was. She sighed, realizing for the first time how much this case was getting to him, was getting to her. They were all worried, even though they showed it in different ways. And she heard the bits of truth in his words. Though it was most definitely not true that she looked at _all _men through an Eddie- tainted viewpoint, she had to admit that the bias was sometimes there, especially when she hadn't met someone personally. It was always easier to stereotype a man when you didn't know him as an individual.  
  
Realizing she still hadn't responded to Brass' apology, she refocused her attention on him and gave him a smile. "You're forgiven... this time. Just don't let it happen again," she said, mock-menacingly, reaching down to pick up a pile of evidence bags.  
  
He grinned slightly. "Yeah, I think I've learned my lesson." He grabbed up the remaining bags and turned towards the door, ready to leave this place behind.  
  
"Hey, Jim," she said when he was only a few steps away. When he turned to her inquisitively, she told him, "I'm sorry, too," before striding past him towards the front door. He smiled as he followed.  
  
Warrick met them at the front steps, with Jenkins trailing just behind. "Hey, I was just coming to find you two. You ready to go?" asked the veteran CSI.  
  
"Yeah," nodded Catherine. "You find anything out here?"  
  
"Nah," he replied. "Looked through every flower bed and mud puddle in the back yard _and_ the front. Not even a toe print." He shook his head briefly, frustration evident on his handsome face. He had wanted so badly to find something – _anything_ – that might shed some light on this case for Sara. Heck, for all of them.  
  
Looking past him toward Sara's abandoned vehicle, Catherine glanced back at Brass. "We forgot about that. How do we get her truck back to CSI?"  
  
"Hey, speak for yourself. _I_ didn't forget," the cop replied with a grin, holding up the keys. "Can you get me back to headquarters if I drive the truck down there?"  
  
She nodded. "Good, 'cause I'm gonna go ask Mr. Ellis if he can come in this morning for questioning. OK with you?" he asked her.

At her nod, he turned to the rookie cop. "Jenkins, take my car back, would ya? Just be sure it gets back in one piece. Oh, and leave my keys with whoever's manning the front desk," he added as an afterthought, fishing them from his pocket and handing them to the young man.  
  
"Sure, cap," Jenkins replied. And, with that, each of them climbed into a vehicle, patiently waiting their turns to leave. Brass shook his head and grinned as Catherine tore out in the general direction of the lab, leaving only the distinctive smell of burned rubber and the strident sound of screeching tires in her wake.

XXXXXXXXX

Upon her arrival, Catherine made a quick stop in Greg's lab to drop off the hair sample she'd found and the dishes Sara had bagged. She could tell from his probing questions that the spiky-haired tech wanted information on their scene, but she didn't have the patience to deal with him this morning. She'd spent enough time around Grissom to know that the body could usually tell you more about your case than any other single piece of evidence, and she was anxious to get to the morgue to hear what it had to say. Or maybe she'd just spent enough time around Grissom to be irritated by Greg and his childish antics. She hoped the latter wasn't the case.  
  
Pushing open the stainless steel door to the morgue cautiously, she thought at first that Doc Robbins had stepped away for a moment. The place was usually quiet, but this was downright ridiculous, and she had the fleeting thought that even the dead might protest the utter stillness. Then, as her eyes swept over the room, she saw him in the far corner, carefully studying the leg of a body on his table.  
  
He glanced up as her movement towards him caught his eye, and he waved her over absently, his gaze still fixed on the offending limb. "Hey, Catherine. Got your victim here, but I'm just getting started."  
  
"What do you know so far?" she asked, eager for any new crumb of information he might throw her way.  
  
Carefully replacing the extremity on the table, he gave her his undivided attention. "Not much. I sent samples of her blood to tox since David told me this was a potential poisoning. I've been looking for possible injection sites." Gesturing with his head towards the victim's upper body, he said, "Check out her arms."  
  
Doing as she was told, the blonde looked carefully at the elbows, but there was no evidence of a needle stick in either arm. "I don't see anything," she told the pathologist.  
  
"Exactly," he replied. "Not even a vein. She'd be a tough stick. Even her hands don't have good veins to speak of," he said, picking up the right hand and turning it towards Catherine to illustrate his point.  
  
"So... what? The poison was ingested? Or inhaled?"  
  
"Getting ahead of yourself, Cath. We don't even know if it _was _poison yet," he smiled. "But it _is_ interesting that she has a small puncture wound and a contusion behind her knee that would be consistent with a needle. The bruising would indicate that it occurred perimortem."  
  
"Behind the knee?" she echoed in confusion. "Who injects somebody behind the knee?"  
  
"Popliteal vein," he replied. "In the middle part of the leg just behind the knee. It's a big vessel. And superficial enough to provide easy IV access, but your average person doesn't even know it's there."  
  
"OK," she replied, her mind racing with the possibilities this new information presented. "Anything else?"  
  
"Just curious for myself as to why she's got blown veins in her upper extremities. I didn't see any track marks, but does she have a history of drug abuse?"  
  
"I don't think so. Middle-aged housewife married to a bank exec. She doesn't really seem like the type, but you never know."  
  
"True," Doc replied sadly. "Well, I guess she could have done it through repeated blood transfusions or any variety of medical treatments that required multiple IV sticks."  
  
"Hmmm," Catherine mulled over what he had told her. "So whoever did this would have to have some knowledge of anatomy. And the victim had pantyhose tied around her hands when we found her, but they weren't tight enough to really restrain her. How do you inject somebody behind the knee without restraining them?"  
  
"I don't know," the medical examiner shrugged. "That's why I'm in here, and you're out there." He winked at her with a lopsided grin.  
  
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Page me when you've got something else." Turning towards the door, she tossed over her shoulder sarcastically, "Oh, and thanks, Doc. You've been a _really_ big help."  
  
"I do my best!" he called out cheerfully as the door closed behind her.

XXXXXXXXX

Warrick felt the ache of fatigue as he strode purposefully through the halls of CSI, but he intentionally ignored it. _Don't have time to be tired_, he thought. Even greater than his body's exhaustion was his need to do something productive on this case.  
  
Turning into one of the labs, he found the person he was looking for. "Hey," he said to Jacqui.  
  
"Hey yourself," she responded, suspiciously eyeing the bag of fingerprint tapes under his left arm. "Looks like you've been busy."  
  
"Yeah," he agreed. "Need your advice on something."  
  
Curious, the tech raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Shoot."  
  
Dropping the offending prints onto the counter in front of her and the remaining evidence he was carrying on the floor, he pulled the plastic-encased note from inside his field kit and placed it nonchalantly in front of her. "I need both you and Ronnie to have a crack at this. Who should get it first?"  
  
She leaned forward to read without actually picking up the bag, and the CSI watched as her eyes widened in shock. After composing herself, she raised her gaze to his, and he was impressed when she responded to his question without demanding further explanation. Jacqui was nothing if not a consummate professional, and she never asked for more than what she needed to know. "As important as this is, you need to get it to Ronnie first. I can't get anything from it without destroying what he needs. Just tell him he needs to keep it inside the plastic as much as possible. If he has to take it out, he obviously needs to wear gloves, and he should return it to the plastic absolutely as soon as he can. When he's done, bring it to me, and I'll see what I can get from it."  
  
Handing the bag back to him, she glanced down at the other samples. "These from the same case?" she asked, raising her eyes to meet his even gaze. He nodded. "I'll be working on these while Ronnie's got that," she said, gesturing toward the note in his hand.  
  
"OK," Warrick replied, already heading out the door.  
  
"Hey," she called. When he turned toward her, she softly told him, "Looks like we'll all be working lots of overtime on this one." He nodded, but she had already focused her gaze onto the first of the fingerprints in front of her.  
  
It only took him a few seconds to locate Ronnie. The heavy-set handwriting expert was bent over the tattered remains of a torn contract, looking intently through a magnifying glass at the signature on the top line. He looked up when the taller man entered the room. "Hey," he smiled.  
  
"Hey," Warrick greeted. Holding out the note, he said, "Got something I want you to take a look at."  
  
As the tech's eyes skimmed the contents of the paper, he quickly glanced at Warrick, an unspoken question on his face. The black man simply pressed his lips together and nodded tightly in reply. "Jacqui needs it after you. She said for you to keep it in the plastic as much as possible and to be sure you handle it with gloves if you have to take it out for any reason."  
  
"Of course," Ronnie replied. "I'll see what I can get from it." Glancing at the clock, he saw that their shift was almost over. "It might take me a couple of hours. What do you want me to do with it if she's not here when I'm done?"  
  
Remembering the fingerprint tech's comment, he replied, "She'll probably be here, but page me when you're finished, no matter what. I'll get it to Jacqui or whoever else might need it."  
  
"OK," Ronnie agreed, but he wasn't at all surprised to find himself speaking to the CSI's retreating back.  
  
Warrick walked with purpose toward the layout room, only breaking stride when he heard a familiar voice call out to him from the break room. "War!"  
  
Nick grinned at him when he poked his head into the room. "Why are you here so late? And where's the fire?"  
  
Raising his hands slightly to indicate the evidence he was carrying, he responded, "Big case. Some of us have jobs to do."  
  
"I guess some of us actually close our cases," the Texan replied. "Finished up the Bellagio heist, even with Catherine bailing on me," he smirked. "Brought in the hotel manager, and he caved as soon as we got him under the bright lights. O'Reilly's booking him now. One night," he gloated gleefully. "Some of us are just good like that."  
  
Any other time, Warrick could have tolerated his playful boasting and even thrown it back at Nick. But, today, he wasn't in the mood, and this was just wasting his time. He glared at the other man and responded without holding anything back. "Nick. The case I'm working involves a note with a threat directed at Sara."  
  
"What?!" Nick replied with genuine shock. "Is... she OK?" he stammered. Worry clouded his features and, for a moment, Warrick felt a twinge of remorse at his direct approach.  
  
Softening his tone considerably, he clapped a hand across his friend's shoulder, propelling him gently towards the layout room. "Brass took her to stay at Grissom's. In the meantime, we've gotta catch this guy, man." Reaching the table, he dropped his armload into semi-organized piles for processing.  
  
Straightening his shoulders, Nick glanced at Warrick. "Two sets of hands are better than one. What can I do to help?"  
  
Meeting his friend's brave gaze, Warrick smiled. This was the Nick he knew and loved – steady, helpful, determined. Eyeing the evidence in front of him, he pushed his and Sara's digital cameras toward the other man. "You've got video." Looking around at the remaining piles, he indicated one item with a nod of his head and said, "I'm taking the vacuum bag. When we're both done, we can look at this over breakfast." At that statement, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Nick.  
  
Perusing the familiar handwriting quickly, Nick looked at him in surprise. "Where'd you get this?"  
  
"Copied it down before I gave it to Ronnie. He needs the note itself, but he doesn't have exclusive rights to the contents." Looking up at his friend, he observed him questioningly. "'Two heads are better than one,' right? Maybe we can figure out who this guy is."  
  
Handing the paper back to Warrick, Nick patted him on his shoulder as he headed out of the room. "Page me if you finish before me." Smiling, Warrick nodded as he turned to watch his friend leave without a backwards glance.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom was rudely jerked from his blissful sleep by a strangled sob next to his ear. Opening his eyes, it only took a second for him to remember where he was and who was lying next to him. Turning to her quickly, he was alarmed to see her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her beautiful features contorted into a grimace. Instinctively, he tightened his right arm around her back, desperately trying to soothe her nightmare away by reaching up with his free hand to wipe away the strands of hair that had matted to her sweaty forehead.  
  
It was the wrong move for him to make, but he didn't realize that until a tightly clenched fist connected directly with his exposed rib cage. Sara might have been slender, but she was quick and deceptively powerful. He winced at the blow that stole his breath for a moment and, at the last second, brought his arm up to stop her fist from landing a second time.  
  
His fingers interlinked with hers, trying to soothe her panic, but his efforts only seemed to further enrage her, and she struggled violently against him. Freeing herself at last, she drew back to flail at him once again, and he brought his arm up protectively. This time, though, instead of his catching her hand, she seized his wrist in a vise-like grip, her fingernails digging painfully into his flesh and her thumb applying so much pressure to the back of his arm that there was no doubt there would be bruising. Out of options, he surrendered to her grasp and was surprised to feel her finally relax against him.  
  
His shock only increased when he felt her index and middle fingers move deftly against the pulse in his wrist, her thumb releasing its pressure on his arm, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he heard her erratic breathing began to mimic his own rapid heartbeat. He forced himself to breathe deliberately, causing his pulse to slow, and he was amazed when he heard Sara's breathing subside in response.  
  
When he could hold his arm up no longer, he moved it quickly, catching her hand in his. He heard her sharp intake of breath and worried for a moment that she would fight him. Not knowing what else to do, he placed her hand onto his bare chest and covered it with his own, directly over his pounding heart. He exhaled gratefully when she pressed her palm lightly against his chest before relaxing next to him and settling back into sleep.  
  
Not daring to move, barely venturing to breathe, he stared at the ceiling, trying to will sleep to return to him. When it didn't come, he allowed himself to think about the events of the day. The myriad of emotions he had felt – futility, confusion, panic, fear, worry, despair – threatened to engulf him. Trying to make sense of the swirling feelings, he forced himself to think in scientific terms, distilling everything down to its lowest common denominator. He came up with two overwhelming emotions that seemed to define his life: loneliness and love.  
  
He'd dealt with loneliness for a long time. It was like an old friend who was a little annoying. Sure, it wasn't much fun to have around, but it was familiar, and there was always something comforting in the familiar. And loneliness was not oppressive. Or, at least, it wasn't before.  
  
Not until he met love. That particular emotion had come upon him so gradually he hardly realized it but, one day, he awoke, and it was there beside him. He loved Sara, and he knew it. Knew it as surely as he knew the sky was blue, as surely as he knew the earth was round. It was a fact of life. Before he met her, he didn't mind the loneliness because he didn't know what he was missing. He didn't know love.  
  
But now he did, and he was constantly reminded of the fact that he was missing the one thing – the one person – he wanted more than anything. But the fact that he wanted her didn't change the reasons he couldn't have her. It never had.  
  
He forced himself to shut down the part of his brain that thought. _Yet another thing I never did before I met Sara_, he thought grimly. But, for now, all he wanted was to feel. And feel he did. He felt the gentle weight of her head resting against his shoulder, the softness of her hair brushing his arm, the tickle of her breath as she exhaled against his chest, the light pressure of her palm over his heart. And he wasn't surprised when sleep wrapped its arms around him and tugged him down into its depths.  
  
**TBC... **


	6. Safety and Security

**A/N:** I crave reviews! Come on, please! OK, so I've resorted to begging. Sad, ain't it? :) Seriously, though, are there things I should work on? Or is anybody even reading this at all? :) Oh, and I guess I should apologize in advance for the Catherine/Lindsey storyline - I know we get more than enough of that drama on the show, but I wanted to explore those characters for just a bit. :)  
  
**Spoilers:** "Cats in the Cradle," "Bad Words"  
  
**Disclaimer:** Oh, the things I'd do with Grissom if I owned him. But, alas, I do not. Or any of the rest of them, for that matter. :)  
  
**Chapter 6: Safety and Security**  
  
Catherine's pager sounded extraordinarily loud in the concrete-walled hallway outside the morgue. Startled, she grabbed the little black box from her belt and pressed the button to silence its insistent whine. Looking down as she walked, she smiled when she read the text displayed on the screen. "Ellis here. Interrogation room B."  
  
Glancing at her watch, she winced when she realized it was nearly an hour and a half past the end of shift. She had promised Lindsey they would go out for breakfast this morning – "girls' day out," she had called it, pleased at the giggles that had drawn from her daughter – and she knew the ten-year-old was probably already dressed and waiting. With a sigh, she unclipped her cell phone from her belt, pushing a well-worn speed dial button as she walked. _Maybe I can still salvage lunch...  
_  
"Mom?" the familiar voice answered. "I thought you'd be here by now."  
  
"Hey, baby," she said, loathing herself for breaking this promise and hating the fact that she saw no way to avoid it. This case was too important. "I have to work a little bit late today."  
  
There was silence for a beat before her daughter responded. "It's OK, Mom. We'll do it some other time." Her words were forgiving, but the disappointment that tinged them was unmistakable. And Catherine's heart broke when she heard it. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was why she had seen two preteen girls who had brutally stabbed an old woman with an ink pen or a small boy who had intentionally set fire to his own home, and she questioned which of her broken promises would ultimately be the one that would send Lindsey into an irretrievable life of crime. Before her all-too-vivid imagination could send her spiraling into an abyss of guilt, she pushed the thoughts from her mind and steeled herself to make the best of a bad situation.  
  
"No, honey, we're still going. But I want to have lunch instead, OK? And then do some shopping. I've been thinking that you need a new outfit for your dance recital. What do you think about that?" It wasn't a lie. She really had been thinking about it. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she was trying to buy off her own child, and she hated it.  
  
"OK," came the quiet voice. "What time will you get here?"  
  
"As soon as I can, baby. In time for lunch, I promise," she replied, breathing a silent prayer that this would be a promise she could keep. "Tell Aunt Karen I'll be a little bit late, and you keep being good for her, all right?" She could only imagine what Karen thought of her parenting skills. Her neighbor had been a godsend, frequently babysitting Lindsey for hours on end at a moment's notice. _I'm sure she thinks it would certainly be preferable if I were actually **around **to raise my own child_, she thought. _But I'm really glad she doesn't mention it_.  
  
Her arrival at the interrogation room made her increasingly eager to end the conversation. "OK, I gotta go. Love you." Without waiting for the reply, she hung the phone up quickly, knowing she couldn't handle hearing the disappointment in her daughter's voice a second longer. She closed her eyes and sighed, walking up behind Brass as he looked through the window at the solitary figure inside. Looking up at her, he nodded and opened the door, allowing her to precede him into the room.  
  
John Ellis looked up with red-rimmed eyes as Brass and Catherine entered. His face was haggard, and Catherine could see from the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn't been able to sleep at his neighbor's home. Nor probably any other time in the recent past, for that matter. The shirt he wore had probably been neatly pressed earlier in the day, but it now bore the wrinkled marks of long usage. His hands were clasped together on the table, his right hand fidgeting absently with the ring on his left, as he stared ahead blankly. She considered herself to be a pretty good judge of character and, despite her preconceived ideas about Mr. Ellis, she began to believe that Brass was right. He looked, for all the world, like a man who was truly mourning the loss of his wife.  
  
"Mr. Ellis, I'm Catherine Willows from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," she told him, holding out her hand for him to shake. He dutifully obliged, taking hers in a firm grip for just a moment before dropping his hand to twist his wedding ring once more. "I believe you've already met Captain Brass," she said, taking the seat directly across from him.  
  
Both men nodded as Brass sat next to Catherine. "We just have a few questions," the cop told him. "Anything you can tell us might help us find who did this."  
  
"Of course. I'll cooperate in any way I can."  
  
Gesturing across the table, Brass said, "Why don't you tell us about your trip and finding your wife?"  
  
Ellis brushed a shaky hand over his balding head. "I'd been in New York on business all week, and I was so ready to get home. Marilyn and I had planned a second honeymoon for years, but I never made the time. So I had promised her, as soon as I got back, that we'd just spend a whole week at home – no kids, no housework, just the two of us together. For our anniversary," he added bitterly, his voice breaking on the last word.  
  
Brass lowered his eyes to the table to give the other man some privacy with his grief, but Catherine looked on in sympathy. After a few seconds, he looked up and met her gaze. "Seventeen years next week," he said brokenly. "I can't believe she put up with me for that long."  
  
Catherine reached across the table to pat his clasped hands in a caring gesture. "I'm very sorry for your loss," she told him, knowing even as she said them how pitifully inadequate the words were.  
  
But they seemed to help. Ellis drew in a deep breath and began to speak in a steadier voice, his eyes focused on the table. "Thank you. Well, my plane landed in Atlanta at about 3:30 yesterday afternoon – their time," he added as an afterthought. "My connection was supposed to take off at 7:30 and land here at 8:05 our time. But, pretty soon after our flight landed in Atlanta, they had a big storm come through. Flash floods, lots of lightning. Everything was grounded. They even had to reroute some planes that were supposed to land there."  
  
He sighed as he lifted his head to face them, eyes watery with remembrance. "I called Marilyn and told her I had no idea what time I was leaving Atlanta and that I'd call her before takeoff to give her some idea when she could pick me up at McCarran. But, when we didn't leave until about midnight Atlanta time, I called her to tell her not to come get me and I'd get a cab home," he said, smiling apologetically. "I didn't want her out that late at night, thought she'd be safer at home. Guess that's what I get for thinking," his voice was strangled as he choked back a sob.  
  
Catherine felt the pang of her own emotions as she heard the guilt behind his words, and she gently asked, "Can you tell us how you found her? Any detail might help."  
  
He inhaled deeply and nodded, his brow furrowing as he concentrated on remembering minute details. "My plane landed at about 12:30 in the morning. By the time I got my luggage and got home, it was almost 2:00. I paid the driver and found my keys before I got up to the house. I remember Marilyn hadn't left the porch light like she usually did – I guess she forgot. The house was dark, but I can find my way around that place blindfolded," he smiled.  
  
"I went in as quietly as I could. I didn't want to wake her up. I left my bag on the floor in the bedroom and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I wanted to see her, though, so I turned on the bathroom light to look at her... just for a second." The smile on his face was bittersweet, but it faded quickly as he remembered what happened next. "When I turned to look at her, she wasn't on the bed like I expected. She was just lying on the floor by her side of the bed with her wrists tied in front of her." He looked from Catherine to Brass, a haunted look in his eyes, almost pleading with them to tell him this was just some awful dream. "Why would anyone want to do that to her?"  
  
When he got no verbal response, he clenched his hands together until his knuckes were white before continuing with his narrative. "I ran over to her. I don't know CPR, but I was sure gonna try. But then, I saw her eyes, just open and staring at me. And I knew she was dead. I called 911 to tell them someone..." His voice trailed off as he tried to collect himself. "...someone... had killed my wife. Then I just sat beside her and stroked her hair until the police knocked on my door."  
  
Catherine studied the grief-stricken man in front of her, his drawn expression, the fingers that continued to toy with his wedding ring, and she came to a decision. She couldn't put this man through much more of reliving these memories. He had done well to come this far. She looked down at the list of questions on the pad in front of her and decided that most of them could wait. But she wanted to know the answer to one. "Mr. Ellis, did your wife have any medical conditions?"  
  
He looked at her, surprised. "Marilyn? No," he scoffed. "Healthy as an ox. We used to joke about how I'd go first," he smiled. When he remembered the two in front of him didn't share in the joke, he patted his chest. "Bad ticker. But Marilyn was only in a hospital twice in her life – when she was born and last year when she had her gall bladder out." Wrinkling his brow in confusion, he tilted his head to look at Catherine. "Why do you ask?"  
  
She smiled at him. "Well, we noticed that it was hard to find a vein in her arms or hands. It may be nothing, but we were wondering if she'd had multiple IV sticks in the past for some medical treatment." She had no desire to bring up the idea of drug abuse. This man had been through enough.  
  
Thankfully, she didn't have to. Ellis' face relaxed, and he leaned back in his seat. "She did that being a blood donor for more than ten years. The Red Cross loved her. O-negative. They used to call her all the time. I still drink my coffee out of 'I Gave Blood Today' coffee cups every morning," one side of his mouth curving upward into a lopsided smile. "It almost killed her when she had to stop donating, but the aide at the Red Cross told her he just couldn't stick her any more. And, man, when she had to have the gall bladder out, they were not happy. Had to implant some big IV in her chest to be able to give her the meds."  
  
She nodded, looking over at Brass to let him know she was finished. He took her cue and stood to offer Ellis his hand. "Mr. Ellis, we appreciate your coming down here to answer our questions. That's all for now, but can we call you if we have more?"  
  
Ellis nodded as he stood. "Will you keep me informed?"  
  
"Absolutely. If there are developments in your wife's case, we'll let you know."  
  
"Thank you, Captain. Miss Willows," he said, looking down at her. "I appreciate what you're doing for Marilyn." Gathering up the jacket that was sprawled on the chair behind him, he shuffled slowly towards the door, closing it carefully behind him before moving off in search of the exit.  
  
Brass dropped heavily back into his chair. "What'd you think?"  
  
Catherine turned to look at him with a smirk. "I think you're right. No way he killed his wife."  
  
To his credit, he didn't gloat. He merely smiled slightly and cocked his head to the right. "What made you change your mind?"  
  
She shook her head. "His wedding ring. If he'd killed her, he wouldn't even have been wearing it, let alone caressing it lovingly."  
  
Brass nodded with a heavy sigh. "So what now?"  
  
She stood and gathered her notes, suddenly needing to get out of here. "Now I take my daughter out to lunch and forget about this place. You?" she asked, glancing sideways at him.  
  
He smiled tiredly. "Soon as I make some phone calls and line up some protection for Sara."

XXXXXXXXX

Warrick slumped into a booth across from Nick, the latter already perusing the diner's limited menu. "Why do you do that, man? You know what they serve here," Warrick asked with amusement.  
  
"I just like to be sure I've considered all of the available options," Nick replied, lips pursed together to prevent a smile from forming as his eyes scanned the familiar laminated sheet.  
  
A few seconds later, a waitress appeared, popping her gum and looking down at them expectantly. Warrick glanced up. "Hey, Doris. I'll have the #2 and black coffee. Not sure about him," he said, waving a hand towards his companion dismissively. "He's 'weighing his options.'" His emphasis on the last words was overdone, and Nick fought the urge to stick out his tongue.  
  
Doris was in no mood to deal with this. "He'll have the #1 and orange juice, just like he always does," she replied, snatching the menu from Nick's hand and stalking away to put in the order.  
  
Warrick laughed out loud at his friend's comically surprised expression. The Texan recovered quickly, shaking his head with a grin, but it faded just as rapidly as it had come when he remembered why they were here. "Hey, War, give me that note," he said, reaching for a napkin and pulling a pen from his back pocket.  
  
The taller man complied, looking on as the CSI copied down the contents onto the napkin. "What do you think?"  
  
Glancing up as he finished writing, Nick replied. "Well, starting with the obvious, I'm sure 'Kim' is not his real name. I'm guessing it's a guy since it sounds like he's committed multiple crimes like this one, and serial killers are usually men. And I guess Sara worked the last one." He sighed. "We're gonna need her help on this case, much as we want to keep her off of it."  
  
"Yeah," Warrick replied resignedly. "She always remembers the ones that get away."  
  
Nick was still studying the note's contents. "'Special plans for you in the future'? What is that about?"  
  
The black man felt his anger grow. "Isn't it obvious? I can't believe this idiot has the nerve to threaten Sara."  
  
Nick's brow furrowed, and he narrowed his eyes at the napkin. "Maybe it's not a threat to her directly. He just got through talking about how he enjoyed the pursuit. Maybe he wants to commit more crimes to watch her chase him."  
  
Warrick peered closely at the notepad, nodding slowly. "Yeah, maybe. I can buy that. I still want her protected, though, just to be on the safe side."  
  
"Oh, yeah, me, too," his friend replied quickly. "I don't want us to take chances. I'm just saying there's more than one way to take that."  
  
Warrick was confused about something else. "Here's my question. Why does he call her 'Agent'? He seems like he's watched her for a while and should know that's not what we're called. 'CSI,' maybe even 'Officer,' but 'Agent'? Uh-uh. It doesn't make sense, man."  
  
He looked up as Doris unceremoniously plopped plates of steaming food in front of each of them, followed by their drinks. He gave her a winning smile, and she returned it with a scowl, hurriedly scribbling something on the back of the check before dropping it on the table. He picked it up, chuckling at her handwritten note. Nick glanced up at him, mumbling around a mouthful of bacon, "What's that?"  
  
Warrick held it up for his friend to see. "She wrote for us to have a pleasant day and to come again."  
  
That got a laugh out of the Texan. "You'd think, if she really wanted us to have a pleasant day, she might actually do something to make it pleasant, rather than taking our heads off all the time." He grinned as his companion nodded in agreement, and the two went back to their breakfasts, content for the moment to forget about the case.

XXXXXXXXX

The call of nature began to nag at Sara slowly, and she tried her best to resist it. _Leave me alone. I'm warm. I'm comfortable. I'm safe and secure_. It was that thought that caused her eyes to pop open, her mind now fully awake. She hadn't felt safe and secure since she was seventeen years old.  
  
The memories came back to her slowly. Her fear, Grissom's embrace, falling asleep in his arms. She closed her eyes as she felt her stomach flip at the mere remembrance of his tender actions. And she was still here, still held by his strong arms. She reveled in the moment and tried to memorize its every aspect, knowing it would end far too soon and would likely never come again. She felt the tickle of soft hair on his leg beside her smooth one, the strength of his bicep against her back as he held her to him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her head, the feel of his chin against the crown of her head. Opening her eyes once more, she saw her hand gently encircled in his, lying against his chest. She felt the steady beat of his heart under her palm and felt a rush of embarrassment as she wondered if she had moved it there during the night.  
  
Nature called to her again, louder this time and impossible to ignore. She gingerly pulled her hand from his, trying to disentangle herself from his hold without waking him. As she freed her hand from his grip, he stirred and rolled toward her. Taking advantage of his movement, she pushed away from him completely and stood on the other side of the bed. His now-empty right arm felt for her, and he mumbled her name as he searched. Wanting him to return to his peaceful slumber, she responded the only way she knew how. Kneeling on the bed, she rubbed a hand against his bearded cheek and muttered quietly, "Shhh. I'm right here."  
  
Her voice calmed him, and he settled back into sleep. Sara continued to stroke his face for a moment longer, relishing the opportunity to gaze without interruption at the man she loved. It amazed her how the years seemed to vanish when he was asleep, how innocent and childlike he appeared. And she smiled as she carefully pushed herself off the bed.  
  
The thought of him being able to hear her lavatory activities sent a blush to her cheeks and steered her away from the bathroom inside his bedroom. She carefully closed his door behind her, opting instead to find the guest bath.  
  
Once inside the small room and away from the man who had anchored her for the last several hours, she felt the fear return. But, in the light of day, the mortification she felt at allowing her strong façade to erode in front of Grissom was the far stronger emotion. She couldn't face him. He would think she was weak and would look on her with nothing but pity. And, while she had weathered almost every other storm he had thrown her way, she couldn't stand the thought of seeing pity in his eyes. She had to get out of here.  
  
The events of the previous evening had left her feeling grimy and unclean, and she looked longingly at the bathtub. Irritated at herself for even entertaining that thought, she forcefully pulled her head away. _There's no way you're taking a bath at Grissom's. Get real_, she told herself. _You can take a shower as soon as you get home_.  
  
Turning on the faucet in the sink, she washed her hands before splashing water onto her face. Leaving the water running, she rummaged unashamedly under the sink for an unused toothbrush, knowing she should feel remorse for her actions but, at the moment, not really caring. The search did not yield a toothbrush, but she was happy to find toothpaste. Squeezing some out onto her index finger, she cleaned her mouth the best she could, rinsing repeatedly to rid herself of morning breath.  
  
She washed her hands again before turning off the water, running her wet hands over her hair in an attempt to smooth down the unruly strands. She stared at herself in the mirror, surprised at how gaunt she looked but happy to feel a little more human after her efforts with the toothpaste. Knowing a shower was not a viable option, she decided that she at least needed to change clothes, and she opened the bathroom door to go in search of her abandoned duffel bag. It held two full changes of clothes that she had planned to put into her locker for the really bad cases. She found herself feeling very glad she had forgotten to take it inside when she'd arrived at the lab.  
  
She padded quietly down the hall to the living room, happy to see her bag lying on the floor by the front door with her field kit just next to it. The sight of the kit reminded her of the extra deodorant she always kept in there – just in case. She unlatched the kit and grabbed the canister before picking up the bag. Turning on her heel to return to the bathroom, she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Grissom watching her from a chair in the corner of the room. He smiled as he quietly spoke. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"  
  
Still slightly taken aback, she hesitantly answered, "Yes." Unsure what he wanted to hear next, she decided to be polite. "How about you?"  
  
She felt her own face redden when he blushed and dropped his eyes to the floor before responding. "Yes, I did."  
  
_What the heck did that mean? Great, he's just as embarrassed by this situation as I am_, she thought. _I have **got** to get out of here... now_. "Um,... Grissom,..." she stammered, hating herself for her apparent inability to express a coherent thought. "I'm going to call a cab and get out of your hair."  
  
"What?" he asked, incredulous that she could be so stubborn. "You're not leaving, Sara."  
  
Holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture when he saw her face harden in anger, he softened his tone. "Look, stay here with me. Brass said you got threatened, and I don't want anything to happen to you. Please don't fight me on this."  
  
She looked up at him then, surprised at the pleading in his voice and even more surprised when she saw it echoed in his eyes. She nodded, not sure why she was giving in to him even as she did so.  
  
He smiled, feeling a sudden overwhelming joy, even though he wasn't sure why. Looking down at her bag, he said, "Why don't you take a shower while I make us some breakfast? Or I guess I should say lunch, since it's 2:30," he remarked, looking down at his watch.  
  
"What? Really?" Sara asked. How could it be so late? She never slept that long.  
  
He smirked at her bewildered expression. "Guess you really did sleep well, huh?" he said, smiling when her face colored in embarrassment. "Come on," he remarked, standing and gently taking her elbow. "Let me find you towels and stuff. I think I have some clean ones." That comment brought a smile to her face.  
  
He guided her to his bathroom, following her into the fairly spacious room to pull towels and washcloths from the closet just inside. Handing them to her, he pointed to the shower. "Shampoo and soap are in there... obviously." Gesturing vaguely in the general direction of the sink, he said, "Everything else you need should be there. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthwash. Just look around for what you need."  
  
Taking in her slightly puzzled expression, he followed her gaze to see his own toothbrush hanging by itself in the rack next to the sink. Smiling, he realized what had caused her confusion and spoke in a teasing tone next to her ear. "You're more than welcome to use mine if you want but, knowing your penchant for cleanliness, I thought you might be more comfortable with an unused toothbrush." She swung her head around rapidly, meeting his amused eyes. He grinned at her expression as he pointed to the cabinet under the sink. "There's a new one under there."  
  
She looked where he was pointing and colored slightly as she nodded. Taking that as his cue to leave, he said, "Just call if you need anything you can't find." Reaching around the door, he turned the lock and backed out of the room, giving her a tiny smile as he did so.  
  
Shutting the door quietly behind him, he watched in fascination as his right hand involuntarily sprawled his fingers across the particleboard surface. Allowing his hand to linger a moment longer than necessary, he sighed before turning and moving purposefully toward the kitchen.  
  
**TBC... **


	7. Emotional Investment

**A/N: **You know, this work thing is _really_ getting in the way of my writing. It's just a darn shame I enjoy eating so much. :) Oh, a quick side note to Grissomgal71 regarding your review: No fair peeking! :) I had seriously already planned this chapter – are you clairvoyant? :) And I will take the remainder of your suggestions under advisement for future chapters, though I make no promises! :)

**Spoilers: **"Burden of Proof,""Sex, Lies, and Larvae," "Homebodies," "One Hit Wonder," "Crash and Burn," "Play with Fire", "Butterflied," "Bloodlines" – I think it would have been easier to list the episodes I'm NOT spoiling with this chapter! :)

**Disclaimer: **See chapter 1, etc. I don't own _CSI:_. Because, if I did, this whole work-vs.-writing thing wouldn't be such a dilemma. :)

**Chapter 7: Emotional Investment**

Once she heard the door click shut behind him, Sara took a few moments to take in her surroundings. Grissom's bathroom was much like the rest of his life: organized chaos. She smiled as she surveyed the pile of shaving materials in slight disarray on the vanity, and the sight of towels thrown haphazardly over a rack made her shake her head in amusement. Even his bathrobe was carelessly tossed over a hook on the bathroom door, long since forgotten amidst the cares of the day. _The man is nothing if not consistent, even if it's consistently messy_, she thought. For a brief moment, she pondered why that thought grounded her, but just as quickly dismissed it as she reached for the hot water spigot with one hand while tossing a washcloth over the soap dish with the other.

Dropping her bag onto the toilet and the towels next to the sink, she rummaged through her things to find what she needed – deodorant, clothes, socks, underwear. Scooping it all into a pile in her arm, she swept the bag off into the floor, replacing it with the mess of clothing and toiletries. Turning back to the shower, she used the cold water faucet to adjust the temperature to a level just slightly below boiling before removing her clothing and stepping under the welcoming spray.

She cringed as the scalding water made its initial contact with her cool skin, but adapted quickly, finding that it was just what she needed. Looking up, she was happily surprised to see an adjustable shower head. Rising on her toes to reach for it, she turned the plastic ring until the water velocity was somewhere just south of a fire hose, then adjusted the angle to its highest point.

Turning slowly under the steaming jet spray, she braced both hands against the back wall, allowing the water to cascade over her head and massage her back and shoulders. As the hot water fell painfully into her eyes, she closed them but remained firmly in place. Even as her skin began to tingle from both the heat and the force of the water, she stayed where she was, enjoying the cleansing feeling despite the pain. The thought occurred to her that this must be what the plates in her dishwasher felt like, and she relished the sensation of the powerful stream knocking away the grime and dirt of the past day.

After a time, she moved out of the direct path of the water, grabbing the shampoo from the rack at the back of the shower. Allowing the satiny liquid to caress her fingers for a moment, she then massaged it into her hair, coaxing the lather through the strands before finally affixing the entire sudsy mass atop her head. Eyes closed against the sting of soap, she groped upwards for the shower head, readjusting the water into a less vigorous stream and angling it downward so that she could rinse her hair without bathing her face.

When the suds were gone, she opened her eyes to find the conditioner. She was slightly annoyed but not really surprised that there was none to be found. _Men_, she huffed silently. _It will never cease to amaze me how they seem to manage so well without things I consider to be essential. How does he get his hair to look like that without conditioner?_

Reaching for the washcloth, she lathered it with soap, using it to finish the job the high-powered water had started. Turning to face the front of the shower, she ducked her head under the spray and watched as the water swirled down the drain. But, as she watched, her breath hitched in her throat as her mind was drawn into memory.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom considered himself to be fairly accomplished in the culinary arts – certainly far better than most men his age – but his creativity in that arena was somewhat lacking. He cooked what he liked which, unfortunately, revolved to a great extent around meat. Normally, that wasn't a problem, but he was aware that Sara was a vegetarian. Only too painfully aware. 

The memory of her near departure from Las Vegas two years before came to his mind. At the time, he enjoyed their interactions – the harmless flirtations, the playful banter, the casual touches – and was carefully oblivious to the depth of her feelings... and his own. A relationship without the emotional investment. That is, until she called him on it.

When he had first seen her request for a leave of absence, he had acted as though it were some sick joke, ridiculing her wish to check out other labs, scoffing that theirs was the best facility in the country. Then, when she had remarked that he did not respect her, he had treated it as some passive-aggressive attempt at manipulation, trying to convince her that she was being childish, reducing the situation to its lowest common denominator of Sara and her issues with meat. Finally, when she had threatened to quit outright, he had begun to see the gravity of the situation, pulling out his trump card, taking a deep breath as he told her solemnly, "The lab needs you here."

Her sarcastic, "Great," was far from the joyfully submissive response he had expected, and confusion was his predominant emotion in the moments immediately following her departure from his office. But he recovered as he always did, by throwing himself wholeheartedly into his work and denying that there was a problem, chalking up Sara's outburst to her overly emotional personality.

In the end, it had been Catherine – semi-intoxicated after one too many screwdrivers and either unwilling or unable to leave well enough alone – who had convinced him that he really did have a problem and that he needed to do something, anything, to solve it. That was what had prompted his call to the florist that evening. It was a clumsy attempt at an apology, but she accepted it. She had never mentioned the plant or the request that prompted it. And he was grateful for both her forgiveness and her silence. For they had given him what he wanted: Sara without the emotional investment.

Staring forlornly at the mostly carnivorous contents of his refrigerator, he shook his head in frustration as it dawned on him that, two years down the road, he still knew no more about her than he had when he sent her that plant. He still had no idea what foods she liked, what her favorite movies were, what kind of music she enjoyed. He should know those things, but he didn't. And he wanted to. He just didn't know if he had the emotional capital to make _any_ sort of investment, let alone the kind she needed and deserved. And he had no idea why he was thinking of his relationship with Sara in financial terms. _What relationship?_ he chided himself._ You're her boss. She's your employee. End of story_. But his traitorous heart didn't seem to want to leave it at that.

He finally decided on omelets as a relatively safe bet and was pulling out ingredients when he heard his cellular phone ringing from its cradle on the counter. Closing the refrigerator door with his hip, he dropped tomatoes, cheese, and an onion next to the stove before reaching for the phone. "Grissom."

"It's Jim," said the weary voice on the other end. "Got some bad news."

"What's that?" Grissom asked warily.

The cop sighed. "I've called several guys and can't seem to line up anybody to stay with Sara tonight. Not enough notice. I'd pull rank, but I feel bad making guys give up plans with their families to work bodyguard duty. And the ones who _are_ free this evening are a little green for my liking. I'd do it myself, except I'm on tonight and Vartan called in sick, so we're shorthanded anyway." He finished in a rush, wanting little more than to be done with the whole thing. Utterly exhausted and unable to think anymore, he cautiously hoped that Gil would offer some solution that hadn't crossed his own mind. And, yet, he was amazed when he did just that.

"She can stay with me." Even as he suggested it, Grissom questioned his own sanity. But some part of him needed to do this – for her.

"Gil, are you sure?" Brass may have been tired, but he certainly wasn't convinced that _this_ was the answer. "You're not trained for this, and you have your own work to do. You're not exactly the best man for the job."

Something about the detective's words pricked at his pride. "I can hold my own at the firing range. I think I can handle looking out for her."

Brass was in no mood to argue his firearm accuracy, so he chose another tack. "And what about when you go to the lab tonight?"

"She'll go with me."

Jim was incredulous. "You didn't see that threat, Gil, but I did. The perp knows where she works. It's possible he could attack her there. I might even go so far as to say it's probable."

For the briefest of moments, Grissom reconsidered. Then, he made his choice. "It will kill her to not be able to work. I can't punish Sara because some psycho chose her as the object of his fixation. But," he said when Brass started to speak, "I'll tell her she can only go to the lab on the condition that she has to always be accompanied by me, you, Warrick, or Nick. Fair enough?"

Brass considered that. It seemed reasonable enough, except for one thing. "And she can't go out in the field." This time it was his turn to interrupt when Grissom began to protest. "No, Gil. You can't protect her out there, and neither can I. At least the lab is a controlled environment," he said pointedly.

The scientific reference hit its mark. Grissom's analytical mind ran through the multiple variables at each crime scene, and he reluctantly conceded. "OK."

Brass heaved a resigned sigh. "I'm not really convinced but, at the moment, I don't have much choice. This is just until I make alternate arrangements, though."

"Sure."

"OK. I've gotta get some shuteye. See you tonight?"

"I'm certain you will at some point." And, with that, Grissom hung up, still not completely sure why he had done it but entirely positive he had made the right choice. Whistling some random Mozart tune, he returned his attention to gathering the makings of their meal.

By the time he had dropped the last of the diced vegetables into the nearly-cooked egg in the bottom of the frying pan, it finally occurred to him that his guest had not rejoined him. Glancing at his watch, he was startled to find it had been nearly 45 minutes, and he felt an increasing uneasiness as he listened to the continued sound of water running in the shower. _Is she OK? Did she fall? Most home-based accidents **do** occur in the shower. Get a hold of yourself, Gil. She probably just takes long showers. _But he couldn't shake the growing apprehension. _Who takes **this** long in the shower?_ Having no idea what he would say once he got there, he wiped his hands on a dishtowel before turning down the heat on the stove and heading off towards the bathroom.

XXXXXXXXX

_She had entered the Ellis crime scene alone. She saw him sitting at the kitchen table. "Daddy!" she called, giving in to her initial impulse to run to him. At first, she didn't know why he didn't respond but, when she reached him, she saw the vacant, staring eyes and felt her own fill with tears. Ever the investigator, she noted the piece of paper on the table, knowing without looking that Kim had left it for her. She reached frantically for the pulse in her father's neck. Frustrated with her inability to feel it through the thick latex, she ripped the gloves off, only to find her hands covered in blood. Unable to stop herself despite knowing she shouldn't tamper with evidence, she ran for the sink, needing to get rid of the blood. _

_She held her hands under the water, scrubbing at them vigorously to remove the red stains, watching the clouded water swirl down the drain. But, the harder she tried, the more there was. So she scrubbed harder, like some modern-day Lady MacBeth, with tears pouring down her cheeks. It was then that the apparition grabbed her from behind, his hand grazing across her forehead in his attempt to destroy her. And she fought back. _

_Desperate to escape his grasp, she felt pure animal gratification when her blow connected with his shadowy body, but his hold on her did not lessen. She raised her bloodied fist to hit him again and was horrified when he grabbed her, his fingers interlinking with her own like some macabre lover. She fought with all that was within her, the slippery blood working to her advantage as her digits slid from his hold. _

_She raised her hand high above her head to strike and, when he raised his own arm, she seized it and held on for all she was worth. She gripped hard, digging her fingernails into the flesh, desperately needing to win this battle. When he ceased his struggle, she moved her fingers towards the pulse. And she followed it back to reality._

It was a trick her mother had taught her. When the nightmares had started in the days following her father's death, rousing her from sleep night after night with her own blood-curdling screams, she would sob onto her mother's shoulder until she was too exhausted to dream. Finally, anxious to end the dreams that haunted her daughter's sleep, the elder Sidle had told her, "Honey, nightmare villains aren't real. They don't have a heartbeat, but you do. That's how you can tell it's a dream. Find your pulse, and follow it back to reality."

So she tried it. The next night, when she saw her father's staring eyes and felt some unseen phantom grab for her, she found the pulse in her own arm. And she followed it back to reality and away from his deathly grip. The trick had worked for every subsequent nightmare, albeit in different ways. Sometimes it metamorphosed into something less sinister, sometimes it merely dissipated into peaceful slumber, sometimes she awoke in a cold sweat. But it always worked.

It worked through the really tough cases that brought the nightmares with them. Through Kaye Shelton's death, through Suzanna Kirkwood's rape and murder, through the countless rape victims that tore at her very soul. It worked through Melissa's betrayal, through Hank's cheating, through Grissom's rejection. It worked through his exhausted confession of his feelings for her, through her own near-arrest for DUI. The trick always worked with the nightmares. But it couldn't help with a reality that was sometimes infinitely worse.

The knock at the door roused her from her thoughts, and she lifted her head from the water to hear the muffled voice that now spoke to her. "Sara? Are you OK? You've been in there a long time." He sounded tentative, concerned and, for a moment, she felt remorse that she had been the cause.

"I-I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute," she called, hoping it sounded more confident than she felt.

When he responded with a cautious, "OK," she sighed and waited a few minutes for him to retreat before turning off the water and reaching for a towel.

XXXXXXXXX

"Hey, Griss?"

Her voice came from around the corner and down the hall, and he leaned back from the stove to catch a glimpse of her as he responded. "Yeah?"

When she rounded the corner into his line of sight, he nearly lost his balance, mentally blaming it on the awkward angle but knowing better. Her hair hung in loose wet tendrils, framing her face and leaving dark splotches where it touched the fabric of her shirt. Sara with wet hair was a sight he did not believe he'd ever see, and he struggled to regain his steel control as he looked at her.

"Do you have a hair dryer?" The look on her face was hopeful, and he wanted so badly to respond in the affirmative, but it would have been a lie.

He replied meekly, "No." Raking a hand through his own salt-and-pepper hair, he shrugged as he told her, "Mine dries fast."

She bowed her head in defeat. "I should have known. I guess it's just as well. Without conditioner, I'll just be a huge mess anyway."

"I don't see how either conditioner or a hair dryer could make that much difference to a woman who has never been anything less than stunning a day in her life."

She shot her head up sharply at that comment. _**What** did he just say?_ But he had returned his attention to the omelets and was busily scooping the last one out of the frying pan and onto a plate_. I wish I knew how it is that he says these things that just knock me on my butt, but they faze him not at all. Give it up, Sara. He means nothing by them. Just let it go. It's par for the course._ She sank wearily into the leftmost chair on her side of the breakfast bar.

Grissom, for his part, was glad he had something to focus on besides Sara's startled expression. The words had left his mouth before his brain had the opportunity to censor them. He had just been so thunderstruck that Sara actually believed she could ever look bad. _"Stunning?" Geez, Gil, what are you, 14? Could you have sounded any more like a lovesick teenager if you tried? I cannot **believe** I just said that._

Having fully regained his composure, he pulled the second omelet from the oven where it had been warming and placed the freshly cooked one in front of her. After setting his own down on his side of the counter, he turned to pour coffee into two mugs, placing one in front of each of them. Scrutinizing the area carefully, he decided that all of the required elements were present and rounded the breakfast bar, reaching up for the dishtowel on his shoulder as he did so. "Breakfast is served, mademoiselle."

A slight smile gracing her features, she happened to glance up at him at that instant. Her eyes widened in shock as she noticed the large bruise on the back of his arm when he took the seat next to her. "My God, Grissom," she said and, without thinking, reached out to pull his arm toward her for a better look. Turning the injured limb over with gentle hands, she found more bruising on the underside, along with four distinct indentations where the skin was broken, a slight crusting of dried blood crowning each spot. And she knew exactly what had caused it. "I did this to you, didn't I?"

He didn't know how to respond to that. He couldn't lie to her and, yet, it hadn't really been her fault. He settled on a neutral response. "It's not a big deal, Sara. It's fine." Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, he tried to pull his arm from her grasp. But she tightened her grip on the extremity with her left hand, running the fingers of her right carefully over the tender areas near his wrist. And he found he was lost in her touch.

As her fingers wandered softly over the injuries she had inflicted, her mind raced. She knew she owed him some sort of explanation – for this, for last night, for everything. And she wasn't sure how to begin. "I'm sorry, Griss. I never meant to hurt you." Her voice was so soft he barely heard it, so mournful he thought his heart would rend itself in two.

"Hey," he said, shifting around in his seat and lowering his head to get a better look at her face. He moved his right hand to cover hers, trying to get her attention. When she raised her eyes to meet his, her sorrowful expression drove a dagger into his soul. But, somehow, he managed to speak. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Drawing a great, shuddering breath, she nodded nearly imperceptibly. Her hand remained on his arm, his other hand covering hers, and she drew on his proffered comfort as she began to tell him about the nightmare. His grip over her hand tightened slightly at various points in the narrative, when her body language conveyed an increasing fear, and his strength calmed her. She poured herself into the tale, confessing her fears, telling him about the guilt she'd felt when her father died, about the need to be strong for fear of falling apart completely, about the absolute _necessity_ of being in control. And, when the story was complete, she ventured a look at him, wanting to see his expression though she was terrified of what she might find.

What she saw in his eyes was not what she expected. Not mere tolerance, not condescension, certainly not pity. Not even the normal emotionless mask he typically wore. No, this was something akin to sorrow and empathy and... the slightest hint of something she couldn't quite place. But it made her bold. She had poured out her heart to him, and she felt freer than she had in a while. She wondered what more he would give her, if he would open himself – ever so slightly – to her if she asked, and she decided to reach for the brass ring. She had confessed her fears to him. She wondered if he would do the same. "What scares _you_ the most, Griss?"

Grissom dropped his gaze to the breakfast bar, studying it intently as though his response could be found on its Formica surface. She was asking for an openness he was not ready to give, for a trust he wasn't prepared to provide. And, yet, there was so much he longed to tell her. _What do you want me to say, Sara? That I love you? I do. That I can't imagine my life without you? I can't. That I'd give you the world if I could? I would. But what would any of those confessions accomplish? _

Chancing a glance up at her, he was startled by the jolt of emotion that rushed through him when he met her eyes, and he immediately dropped his own back to the counter. "Sara, I..." His voice trailed off when he realized he still didn't know what to say. _How is it that I can rattle off the Latin names of every insect species known to man, giving great detail about most of them, yet this one female _Homo sapiens_ reduces me to a babbling idiot? _He heaved a world-weary sigh as he wiped a hand across his face.

When he didn't finish the statement, she knew she had asked for too much, and she closed her eyes against the disappointment. When he had made eye contact with her, she had allowed herself to hope that he could open up to her. Now she realized it was too much to ask of him. And it probably always would be.

Exhaling heavily, she pushed herself away from the counter and grabbed up their untouched omelets. Carrying them to the oven, she turned back to face him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, saying with feigned cheerfulness, "Thought they'd be more appetizing if they were warm." He returned her smile with a wan one of his own, nodding his agreement at her pragmatism.

They ate in silence, both lost in their own thoughts and carefully dodging the elephant in the room. When they were done, Sara shyly thanked him for breakfast. "It was really good. I never knew you could cook."

With a dismissive wave, he shrugged. "Gotta cook or starve when you're a bachelor at my age."

That comment could easily have led into another awkward conversation, but she simply changed the subject. "I'll wash the dishes while you take your turn in the shower. If you want, that is."

He gratefully accepted, needing the time alone to collect his thoughts as much as he needed the shower itself. "OK. I'll be out in a bit." Waving his hand across the living room as he ambled towards the hall, he told her, "Make yourself at home."

Closing the door to his bedroom, he gathered the necessary items, carefully compartmentalizing his thoughts and locking away the ones he did not want to deal with at the moment. It was easier to remove Sara from his thoughts when she wasn't staring him in the face. He was just beginning to feel better about the situation when a harsh reality came slamming down on him. _How am I going to handle having her in my home every day?_

XXXXXXXXX

The shower had made him feel better, soothing away aches and pains, massaging knotted muscles, and cleansing the grime of his overburdened mind. When he emerged from the steamy bathroom, he felt like a new man. Rubbing the damp towel over his tousled curls, he glanced casually at the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, pausing to examine his own appearance.

_What could she possibly see in me? I'm pushing fifty. I'm not exactly Brad Pitt – or whoever it is the women find attractive these days. I'm not even the physical specimen that paramedic she used to date was. I'm a socially inept loner who has no idea how to relate to people. I have no idea why she's ever shown an interest in me_. He shook his head in self-deprecation as he ran through the familiar argument. And he found himself more frustrated than ever that his logic could not seem to beat his emotions into submission. He wished his colleagues were right, that he really _didn't_ feel anything. If that were the case, he wouldn't have to face this constant inner turmoil.

Banishing the thoughts from his head, he glanced at his watch. 5:00. He had not the first clue how he would manage to entertain her until it was time to go to the lab. He knew she'd be more than happy to go to work early, but five hours early was probably pushing it.

Knowing he couldn't hide in his bedroom for the remainder of the evening, he sighed and put on his scientist persona before throwing open the bedroom door to seek out his houseguest. He was surprised at the silence he encountered and, for a moment he worried that she had left. Walking down the hall, he glanced into the kitchen first – finding it cleaner than he normally kept it – before he looked into the living room. And that's when he saw her.

She was asleep on his sofa, stretched out on her right side, knees bent slightly, both hands under her cheek lying on the cushion. Her beauty nearly took his breath away, and he lost all concept of time as he drank in the sight before him. He idly wondered if this was how the Prince felt just before he woke Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. When that dangerous thought came to the forefront of his mind, he tore himself away from acting on it by reaching for the throw lying across the back of the couch.

"_What scares you the most, Griss?"_ Her unanswered question crept across his thoughts as he gazed down at her in peaceful repose, and his voice was barely audible as he draped the blanket over her sleeping form. "You do."

**TBC...**


	8. Inferno

**A/N:** This chapter was a little more difficult for me to write. Maybe it's because my life is a tad overwhelming at the moment. :) But, once I sat down and got going, it finally clicked, and I think it turned out OK. Thanks for sticking with this story. I know it's slow to develop, but it takes time to fix what TPTB have screwed up! :) I promise it's going somewhere in the end. Oh, and thank you so much for the reviews – you guys are too kind! :)

**Spoilers: **"After the Show"

**Disclaimer: **Gosh, I wish I owned _CSI:_ (or at least Grissom – that man is hot! :)). Where's my fairy godmother when I need her? :)

**Chapter 8: Inferno**

Grissom couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. He'd been watching her for the better part of an hour. He studied the wisp of hair that moved slightly with each exhaled breath and examined her face in its most relaxed state. And despite a continued undercurrent of fatigue and the tremendous comfort of his recliner, he had no desire to sleep. It just seemed like such a waste of precious time when he was afforded the exceedingly rare opportunity to watch her without consequence.

But when she stirred and suddenly awoke, he smiled sheepishly as her eyes widened when they met his own. _So much for no consequences_, he thought. "Sorry," he muttered. "You just look so peaceful when you're asleep."

Sara smiled broadly as his cheeks reddened, and he became suddenly fascinated with the remote control that had lain unused in his hand since he sat down. Pushing herself off the sofa, she stretched leisurely, her cotton T-shirt riding up slightly to reveal the flesh of her stomach. Despite his best efforts, Grissom felt his eyes drawn to the bare skin, locking the sight safely away in his memory for further analysis at some later time before quickly looking away. _Geez, Gil, could you stop undressing her with your eyes? She's going to think you're some kind of sexual predator._

Dropping her arms, Sara rapidly tugged the shirt back down over her midriff, her own cheeks pinking as she realized her exposure. Hesitantly glancing at Grissom, she wasn't surprised to find he was not looking. What _did _surprise her was the disappointment she felt at her apparent lack of appeal. _Good grief, Sara, you're with your boss, and he's a perfect gentleman while you're evidently trying to undress yourself in front of him. And you're disappointed about the fact that he didn't **notice**? What is **wrong **with you?!?_

He cleared his throat before speaking, eyes glued safely once again to the remote control, desperate for any topic of conversation that would steer him away from further humiliation. He opted for the relative safety of small talk. "Did you sleep OK?"

Thankful for the diversion, she replied quickly, "Yeah. Well, except for the fact that I'm about six inches too long for your couch. " She grinned and chanced a look in his direction.

When he met her gaze with raised eyebrows, she pressed the issue. "Griss, you're even taller than I am. Surely you can afford a real couch instead of this glorified love seat. It can't possibly be comfortable for you," she challenged.

He shrugged noncommittally. "Well, it's not really for sleeping. That's why I have a bed," he shot back, a smirk taking up residence on his face.

"Mm-hmm," she responded. "I guess that's why you were sleeping in that bed when we got here last night, huh?" She shot him a mischievous smile that softened the sarcastic tone.

His smirk disappeared behind a furrowed brow as he tried to grasp how she knew he had slept on his couch the previous evening. Seeing the confused look, she backpedaled quickly. "I wasn't stalking you or anything," she said breezily, hoping to dissipate the tension. Thankfully, his face relaxed into a smile, and she exhaled gratefully.

"I could hear the TV when Brass first knocked last night. Then, after he knocked the second time, it went off, and you opened the door a few seconds later. Since I don't figure you for the type to leave your television on when you go to your bedroom, I assumed you were asleep on the couch and didn't hear him knock the first time. Did I deduce correctly?"

The smart-aleck tone was back, and he couldn't help but return her smile as he begrudgingly nodded his assent. "Very impressive, Miss Sidle. Your investigative skills never cease to amaze me."

"Well, I learned from the best." Her tone was teasing, but he saw the sincerity in her eyes and blushed under the weight of the compliment. Her only response was to smile at the effect of her words.

After a short but awkward silence, Sara spoke again. "So what time are we heading to the lab?" At his sharp look, she amended the statement, eying him with no small amount of confusion. "Not that I'm not... um... enjoying the... uh... current arrangement."

He gave her a weak smile before responding. "Sara..." He had known they would need to have this conversation eventually, but that didn't stop him from dreading it. He heaved a sigh as he lifted his eyes to hers.

His face held the same stoic expression it had when he had demoted her from primary investigator on the Julie Waters case, giving the lead instead to Catherine. Admittedly, she and Nick had been co-primaries, but she felt as if the vote of non-confidence was aimed directly at her. Nicky had just happened to be caught in the crossfire. Looking at her first, he had sent the message loud and clear that he didn't trust her to handle the big case as much as he did Catherine.

When she finally remembered where she had seen that look on his face before, she felt the bitter frustration rising up inside of her, knowing already where all of this would end. "Don't tell me. I'm not going to the lab," she said flatly.

He could hear the thinly veiled anger underlying her words, and he exhaled heavily. _All I ever seem to do these days is make her mad at me. _But knowing he was doing the right thing strengthened his resolve, and he leveled a steely gaze at her as he spoke again. "No, you're going... if you want to."

Hearing the unspoken conditionality of his statement, she eyed him suspiciously. "But?"

Grissom maintained his control over the situation, not flinching in the slightest under her withering stare. "There _are_ a few restrictions on your return," he admitted, without the slightest hint of remorse.

"And those would be?"

Pursing his lips, he internally deliberated his course of action. _Here's where it gets tricky_. _Do I start with the worst condition and work my way up to the best, or vice versa?_ He decided fairly quickly that the more efficient path was to give her the bad news first; that way, if she rejected any condition, he would not have to tell her the remaining ones. However, he realized with a sinking feeling that he had no idea which of his conditions she would consider to be the worst. He could rank two as having an equal chance of holding that distinction. Running through them both quickly in his head, he chose one at random. "First, you're confined to the lab. No field work."

He watched as her mouth dropped open in shock. "What?!?" she asked, her voice raised slightly in disbelief. "I can't go out in the field?"

_That's about what I expected_. Grateful now for his years of practice at cultivating a façade of composure in the face of Sara's tirades, he nodded. Hoping logic would work, he carefully responded, "There's no way to protect you at a crime scene. Not enough control and too many variables."

She was having none of it. "Do you think you could stop with the scientific method here for just a minute? This is not one of your little experiments. We're talking about my life, my career."

He momentarily debated the meaning of her statement. _Does she mean this affects her life **and** her career, or does she mean her life and her career are synonymous?_ Mentally shaking himself to clear the confusing thoughts, he replied in a softer tone. "Sara, we all want you to be safe. I can't knowingly put you in a situation I can't control, one where you'll be in danger." _I couldn't live with myself if I let you get hurt,_ he mentally added.

_Why not? You do it all the time when it comes to anything personal between the two of us. What's so different about my physical well-being?_ She felt the bitterness growing, and it made her defiant. "And if I refuse?" She stared at him boldly, anger flashing in her eyes, looking at him directly with her chin held high.

He returned her gaze resolutely, unwilling to let her see his lack of preparation for this unexpected turn of events. _Refuse? She'd refuse?_ Inwardly reeling, his mind cast about frantically for an alternative with just enough of a threat to force her concession. Thinking quickly, he spoke with barely disguised anger, deliberately adding weight to the shock value of his words and praying she wouldn't call his bluff because he knew he'd never go through with it. "If you refuse, I'll suspend you for insubordination, and I'll personally drive you to San Francisco to stay with your mother until we find this guy. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to assist us, since you're obviously too rebellious to care about self-preservation."

He cursed himself for the feeling of smug satisfaction it gave him to see her eyes widen, but it nevertheless pleased him to know he had won this verbal sparring match. She tried to hold his gaze but quickly dropped her eyes to her hands. "Fine," she sighed in resignation. "What else?"

Grissom was surprised at his own response to the defeat he heard in her voice. When she conceded, he had expected to feel happiness that she had agreed to his demands, relief that she would be safe, maybe even some small connection whereby she would understand that his concern was borne at least partially out of his deeper feelings for her. But he felt none of that. What he _did_ feel was that he had broken her spirit, and he sensed its loss keenly. This was some woman who had no fight, no fire, no passion. This was not Sara.

Releasing a heavy breath and suddenly tired of this conversation, he abandoned his original plan of telling her the conditions individually, instead blurting them all out at once in his hurry to put an end to the discussion. "You'll be accompanied by me, Brass, Nick, or Warrick at all times when you're in the lab. You _can_ work on this case but with eyes, no hands – you can just help review the evidence. And, when you're not at the lab, you'll stay here with me until we find this guy or until Brass makes alternate arrangements." Against his better judgment, he found himself hoping she'd get angry in response – or bitter, or sad. Anything but defeated.

But she didn't. She merely smiled weakly without meeting his eyes and nodded her consent.

"Sara..." He watched her, willing her to look up. She didn't. "I'm doing this for your own good."

"I know," she stated without emotion. "I'll need to stop by my place and pick up some things if I'll be staying here for a while, so maybe we should leave a little early." She did meet his eyes then, but the fire was gone. He nodded his assent to her statement with a sigh, and she stood slowly. "I've got to get ready for work. I'll be back in a minute."

He watched from his recliner as she left the room, rubbing a hand over his beard. He felt more tired than he had in years and, for the second time in as many days, he had no desire to work. Dropping his chin into his hand and closing his eyes, he let his mind wander. _I just want to do the right thing by her. Why does it always seem to go so wrong?_

XXXXXXXXX

They walked down the CSI hallway in silence, Sara staring straight ahead and Grissom casting occasional furtive glances in her direction. When she suddenly turned into the breakroom, he followed, watching her make a beeline for the coffee maker.

He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or annoyed to see Warrick sitting at the table but quickly dismissed it as unimportant. The younger man was there, and it really didn't matter how he felt about it.

"Hey," Warrick said with a grin, looking up from his newspaper as Sara breezed past. Turning his head to his boss, he said, "Hey, Griss."

"Hey," she retorted, flashing her colleague a smile that made Grissom's heart skip a beat. He felt a momentary pang of jealousy that irritated him – whether with her or with himself, he couldn't be sure – and he quickly deflected it into a more appropriate emotion. _Can't you just be happy that she's smiling again? _And he was, even if it wasn't directed at him. Focusing his attention on the young man, he nodded in response to his greeting.

Arriving at the counter by the coffee pot, Sara began gathering the necessary supplies. Creamer, sugar, mugs, spoons. Keeping her back to them, she asked, "War? Coffee?"

"Yeah," he responded. "Black."

Half turning toward him, she queried, "Grissom?"

Stunned that she could still be thoughtful when he had so obviously made her unhappy, it took him a moment to respond. When he didn't answer, she turned to face him fully, a questioning look on her face and an empty mug in her hand. He nodded slowly, clearing his throat to speak. "Yeah. Sug-"

She cut him off. "I know. Sugar, no cream." He cocked his head to the side in confusion, but she waved her hand at him dismissively and turned back to the coffee, leaving him to wonder how she seemed to know offhand something as insignificant as how he liked his coffee while he had only come by the knowledge that she was vegetarian when she had threatened to quit. And he knew it was his own doing.

Forcing his thoughts into professional mode, he looked down at Warrick, who was regarding him with faint amusement. Gesturing with his head, he indicated for his employee to follow him. The younger man pushed himself away from the table and trailed his supervisor to a spot just outside the breakroom door. Even though Sara already knew the conditions of her return, Grissom still wanted some measure of privacy as he spoke about it.

"I think you already know about Sara's situation," he began softly, taking in Warrick's confirmatory nod before continuing. "I don't want her to be alone at any time when she's here. I know she can take care of herself, but I want to take extra precautions. I told her that she has to be accompanied by me, you, Nick, or Brass at all times when she's in the lab."

The young CSI snapped his eyes to Grissom's, matching his boss' low tone as he spoke. "I'm sure that went over well."

Involuntarily glancing in her direction before returning his eyes to Warrick, Grissom responded, "She didn't have a choice. I need to keep her safe. And I need you to be aware of your surroundings when you're with her around here. Brass thinks the perp knows where she works."

Seeing the young man's nod of agreement, he continued. "Have you seen the note?"

Warrick looked over at Sara as he nodded, his own concern etched deeply into his handsome features. "Yeah," he replied grimly.

Grissom's heart rate quickened as he saw the effect the infamous note had obviously had on Warrick, and he was suddenly taken with the overwhelming need to see it. "Where is it?"

The taller man dragged his gaze back to his supervisor's face, cataloguing the worry he saw reflected there. "It's in the evidence locker," he replied, reaching into his back pocket as he spoke.

"Stay with her," Grissom commanded, turning abruptly and stalking off to find the note.

Warrick stopped him with a hand on his arm. The older man looked up at him sharply, initially annoyed at the impediment, but his face softened when he saw the notebook being extended to him. Warrick spoke quietly. "I wrote down what it said. If all you want is content, this is probably faster than having to log it out of evidence."

Taking the notebook from the young man, Grissom looked at him, hoping his gratitude was conveyed in the gaze. Warrick nodded understandingly as he clapped a hand on his supervisor's upper arm before turning to head back into the breakroom. "I'll keep an eye on her," he called softly over his shoulder.

And with that, Grissom turned on his heel and proceeded to the welcoming solitude of his office, the notebook clutched in his right hand. It wasn't until he had closed the door behind him that he realized he had forgotten his coffee.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom was unprepared for the flood of emotions that washed over him when he read Kim's message. He had anticipated the adrenaline rush spurred by fear – had seen that fear in Brass' quick action, in Sara's anguished nightmare, in Warrick's concerned gaze. He had even expected the feeling that hit him after the adrenaline faded – had seated himself beforehand in his awareness of the impending weakness. What he hadn't foreseen was the murderous rage that swept over him like a blazing inferno, threatening to destroy everything in its path. In that instant, he had known beyond any shadow of a doubt that he could kill whoever had written that note. And, for the first time in his life, he didn't know if he could control an impulse.

He had remained in the same position – elbows planted on knees, chin resting heavily on clenched fists, eyes focused on some unseen point – for an indeterminate period of time, trying to compose himself. But, just when the inferno had been reduced to a dying ember, his eyes fell on Warrick's notebook, and the fire was stoked and blazing once more.

At long last, he pushed himself out of his chair, slamming the offending notebook shut and glaring angrily at it as he walked toward the door. Employing every ounce of his willpower, he shoved the inferno to the back of his thoughts, compelling his mind instead to focus on the task at hand. Closing the door behind him with considerably less force than he really wanted to exert, he flipped the notebook's pages idly, more for the distraction of his tortured mind than for any real purpose.

He surveyed his already assembled team when he walked into the breakroom and found the sight oddly comforting. Each one with his own strengths and weaknesses. Grissom found it strange how their strengths made them good, but their weaknesses made them better. He looked at Nick on the right-hand side of the table – reliable and solid, but with an insecure thirst for approval that pushed him to constantly improve. Moving his eyes across the table, he spotted Warrick – strong and diligent, but with a streetwise side that made him compassionate. Looking past Warrick, his gaze fell on Catherine – tough and smart, but with a firsthand experience of Las Vegas' seedier side that gave her a rare insight into the other side of the law. And then, at the far end, he saw Sara – fiery and intelligent, but with an all-consuming passion for justice that drove her to do everything in her power to help the victims_._ And, just like that, the inferno returned with a vengeance.

They all saw the fire flash across his face, but he quelled it rapidly, clenching his jaw as he set the notebook on the table and lightly shoved it across to Warrick. Pulling out his chair at the head of the table, Grissom sat heavily and focused his gaze on his team before he spoke, using his right hand to gesture towards them. "Where are we with this case?"

There was only one open case, but there would have been no confusion, regardless. Catherine, as the primary, answered first. "The victim is a 48-year-old housewife, Marilyn Ellis, found dead in her bedroom by her husband earlier today. We're working under the assumption that cause of death is poisoning, but Doc should have my official COD and tox screen back tonight. He did find an injection site in the popliteal vein behind her left knee. Veins in the upper extremities were basically non-existent, the result of many years of blood donations, according to the husband."

"Is he a viable suspect?" Grissom questioned, the impassive exterior easier to maintain when evidence was being discussed. His quick mind catalogued the rapid-fire information she had presented, leaving the real processing for his time alone with his thoughts.

"Possibly, but I don't think so," she replied. "He seemed like a pretty reliable witness. Cooperative. Greg does have a hair we found at the scene, though. No skin tag, but we could at least do a visual comparison if we can get a sample of his hair voluntarily."

"OK," said Grissom. "Warrick?"

"Nothing from the vacuum cleaner bag that shouldn't have been there," he said, casting an apologetic glance in Sara's direction and earning a brief nod in return. "Greg's working up the DNA from the dishes Sara found in the sink. He still needs to run it through CODIS. And Jacqui's got some good prints but no hits on AFIS. Six different prints, to be exact. I figure each family member's in the mix, but that still leaves us an unknown. Maybe our perp. And she hasn't processed the note yet, so we'll have to wait and see on that."

Grissom flinched at the mention of the note, but the younger CSI wasn't finished. "Best news, though? Ronnie finished a little while ago. The note's computer-generated from a laser printer, evidently high-quality. Like, industrial grade. He got me the name of the manufacturer, and I talked to them this afternoon. They only deal with big businesses. Hotels, hospitals, banks, places like that. Ronnie said there was very little wear on the ink pattern, which made him think this printer must either be new or not used much. I'm gonna call up the dealer again and see if I can find out some of their more recent clients in this area. Maybe it'll give us some leads."

Grissom smiled approvingly. A lead. That would be good news. "Good work, Warrick. Nicky? Did you get in on this case, too?"

Nick nodded. "War kinda pushed me into it. I've been looking at the crime scene photos, but I'm not done yet. Sara is... ahem... shall we say, thorough?"

He turned his head away from his boss to grin at her, and she playfully shoved his arm in retaliation. "Shut up," she retorted with a smile. "I'm cautious, OK? I don't want to make a mistake."

"Sounds like somebody else I know," he muttered meaningfully under his breath, gesturing toward the head of the table with his eyes and smirking at her death glare. Directing his next statement to Grissom, he spoke louder. "I should be finished pretty soon."

The supervisor had watched the exchange with mild amusement and a little confusion, but he dismissed it as banter between colleagues. "You can finish later. If the family is OK with it, I need you to go out to the Ellis home and try to get prints and DNA samples for comparison. Sounds like they might be willing to cooperate."

"Sure thing, boss."

Looking to the end of the table, his eyes settled on Sara's, and he felt the inferno begin to blaze again. _I will kill anyone who tries to hurt her_. He struggled desperately to regain his control, and his voice was strained as he said, "Sara, you're with me. You've obviously been involved in the investigation of one of our perp's cases before. We need to look over the photos of the body and see if it triggers you to remember something that might lead us to a connection." Seeming to read his emotions, she merely nodded her agreement.

Glancing around the table once more, he directed himself to the room in general. "Let me know what you find out." Knowing they had been effectively dismissed, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick filed out to complete their respective assignments.

Grissom turned to face the room's sole remaining occupant as he stood, surprised when she got up and walked towards the counter behind them. He looked on in confusion as she expertly poured coffee into a mug sitting on the counter, and his face registered his shock when she turned and handed it to him. She smiled at his dumbfounded expression, saying simply, "You forgot this earlier."

"Thanks," he replied sincerely, conveying his gratitude with his eyes, thankful as much for her kindhearted gesture as for the liquid itself. With a sigh, he remembered the job they had to do. "You ready for this?" he asked, torn between his concern for her emotional health if she completed the task he'd assigned her and his worry for her physical safety if she didn't.

When she met his gaze, he knew there had been no need to worry. The fire in her eyes had returned, matching his own inferno in its intensity. There was no trace of defeat in her voice, and he heard nothing but her passion when she responded to his question. "Ready." And all was right with the world once again.

**TBC...**


	9. Delayed Reaction

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story. It's very motivating! :) And I haven't forgotten the "Agent Sidle" storyline. There is a purpose for that, and it will all be revealed in due time as our favorite characters figure it out. Good things come to those who wait, guys! I promise I'll do my best to make it worth your while if you'll keep reading. Just don't give up on me now! :)

**Spoilers: **"Scuba Doobie Doo"

**Disclaimer: **Maybe if I'm really good, Santa will give me _CSI:_ for Christmas. Nah, I could never be _that _good. And, until then, they're not mine. :) Hey, Santa, could I just have Gil Grissom? Pretty please with sugar on top? :)

**Chapter 9: Delayed Reaction**

Nick absently tapped the piece of paper against the table as he glanced down at his watch. 9:37. Officially, it was 23 minutes before shift was supposed to start but he, like the rest of the team, had already been here for nearly an hour. It was still early for them, but 9:37 p.m. was bordering on too late to call a normal person. Especially a normal person with three children. He smiled as he realized, for probably the millionth time, exactly how _ab_normal his life was. But he knew he wouldn't have it any other way. Making his decision, he glanced down at the paper before he flipped open his cell phone and began dialing. This was too important to wait.

The voice that answered on the second ring sounded tired but not really sleepy. "Hello?"

Nick took a deep breath and asked politely, "Could I speak with Mr. John Ellis?"

"Speaking," the voice replied, a hint of trepidation shimmering just beneath its glassy surface.

"Sir, my name is Nick Stokes. I'm with the Las Vegas Crime L-," he started.

"Do you have information about my wife's case?" Ellis interrupted, the fatigue in his voice now far less prominent.

"Not anything definitive, sir," the CSI replied sadly, "but we're working as hard as we can, and we're hoping to uncover some leads very soon. I'm sorry to call so late, but we were hoping you would be willing to cooperate with us by providing DNA samples and fingerprints for comparison with the evidence we collected from your home."

"Of course," the older man responded quickly. "Anything to help find Marilyn's... _killer_." The last word was spoken quietly but with venom, as if the flood of frustration and helplessness he felt could be released simply by directing it into that bitter, bisyllabic stream.

Nick had heard that same tone countless times before, and it still had the same effect on him. It made him want to take away the pain. Blinking back his own emotion, he began again gently, knowing this request would be more difficult. "We'd like to get samples from each of your children as well. We just need to know what _should_ be there and what shouldn't."

Ellis was silent for a long moment, something the younger man had fully expected. He'd been down this road before. As a general rule, parents didn't like the idea of giving their children's DNA and fingerprints to law enforcement. Something about Big Brother, he guessed, knowing deep down that he would probably feel the same way if it were his own child.

He waited patiently and eventually heard a deep sigh from the other end of the phone. "Is that absolutely necessary?"

"It's not mandatory, sir, by any means. But I do believe it would help us rule out what is supposed to be in your house. Then, by process of elimination, we can find out what's _not_ supposed to be there."

There was another brief pause and, this time, Nick's patience was rewarded with Ellis' resigned agreement. "All right. But I can't bring my kids to the police station. It would just be too traumatic. Can you come here?"

"Absolutely."

"When should I expect you? First thing tomorrow?"

"Well, actually,..." Nick began, taking a deep breath before continuing. This was a lot to ask. "I was kind of hoping we could come out tonight." He bit his lip, trying to somehow judge Ellis' reaction without being able to see him. "I know it's a lot to ask, but..." He'd been about to launch into an impassioned plea about how evidence was time-sensitive, was ready to explain that their chances of solving the crime were significantly better in the first few hours after it was committed, but the older man cut him off.

"You're in luck, Mr. Stokes. I went to pick up my son from football camp earlier today, and my mother-in-law just got here with the girls a little while ago, so we're all still awake. If you come right now, we'll give you what you need. Otherwise, it'll have to wait until a more convenient time."

"Yes, sir. I'll be right there. And thank you."

"You can thank me by finding the animal who's responsible for this." And, with that, the phone clicked, and John Ellis was gone. Nick closed his cell phone, shaking his head at the emotions he'd heard in the other man's voice, the emotions he'd felt for himself. He had heard the grief, the anger, the exhaustion, the worry. He had felt all of those in his own mind, coupled with his own fear for Sara, the feelings intermingling to produce an overpowering desire for justice and, though he wouldn't consciously admit it, revenge. This family had not deserved to have its wife and mother ruthlessly removed from its midst – just like his friend, and the rest of their team, had done nothing to warrant living with the fear that it would happen to her next – and he only hoped he could do something about that.

The sudden rush of anger he felt took him by surprise, but he quickly refocused it into professionalism. Flipping open the cell phone's cover again, he gathered his kit from the floor before hitting a button on the speed dial. He was already walking down the corridor toward the parking lot when a gravelly voice picked up on the other end. "Hey, Brass. I need you to come with me..." It was 9:46.

XXXXXXXXX

"Hey, Al." Catherine walked confidently into the morgue with a smile on her face. "I hope you're able to be a little more helpful this time."

He grinned as he looked over his glasses at her from his seat next to the lab bench. "Well, I live to serve, Catherine," he replied, holding up the paper he had been reviewing. "Your tox results."

Her face sparked with interest as she reached for the sheet. "What's the verdict?"

She raised her eyebrows when he pulled the results just out of her reach. "Patience is a virtue," he smirked.

She scoffed at that. "Oh, well, _that_ must be why I've never been accused of being virtuous."

Doc's face crinkled with laughter, his oversized belly jiggling like St. Nick's proverbial bowlful of jelly. "Hey, far be it from me to suggest that you were anything less than virtuous." His laughter diminished into a chuckle before dying away completely as his professional demeanor was restored. He waited for Catherine's composure to return before speaking again. "The official cause of death is cardiac arrest."

"Cardiac arrest?" She was incredulous. "_Tell_ me she didn't have a heart attack." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt conflicted. Maybe it would be better for the family if it had been a heart attack. They would still grieve, but there would be closure without the resultant distrust of humanity. On the other hand, natural causes weren't really adding up with the other evidence at the scene.

"Jumping to conclusions again, Catherine?" Robbins smiled. "No, not a heart attack. 'Cardiac arrest' is just a catch-all term meaning the heart stops beating, but there are any number of things that can precipitate that. In your vic's case, it was poisoning."

"Really," she stated, her curiosity now piqued. "What kind of poison?"

"An interesting one," he replied. Turning slightly on his stool, he rummaged among the papers on the bench for a moment. Finding what he was looking for, he extended it toward the CSI. "Her blood chemistries."

She quickly scanned the sheet, noting the bolded numbers as the physician explained them. "Slightly high sodium value with a markedly elevated chloride. She also had an alarmingly low hemoglobin, along with some other abnormalities which lead me to believe the poison probably destroyed her red blood cells."

Lifting her head to look at him, she asked, "So what does that tell us? She was injected with salt water, and it killed her red blood cells and made her heart stop?" It didn't sound right to her, but she'd certainly heard of stranger things. Who knew how much of anything could kill a person?

"Not exactly," Doc replied, "but you're not far off. She _was_ injected with a sodium salt, but it wasn't sodium chloride. We found hypochlorous and hydrochloric acids, the byproducts of sodium hypochlorite breakdown, in her blood."

"Sodium hypochlorite? Death by Clorox?" she questioned, taking the faxed form he held out to her. She'd seen enough suicides by household cleaning agents to last a lifetime, but they always taught her something – like the chemical name for the active ingredient in ordinary bleach.

"Precisely," he intoned. "What's unusual about it is that a fatal dose of bleach is normally taken orally, not injected – and, of course, it's normally suicide and not murder, but that's a separate issue altogether. The point is, there are only a few case reports of bleach injection into a vein, and none of those were lethal."

"People never cease to amaze me. There are actually other people out there who have tried to poison with injected bleach?" Despite her years of experience, there were still times when man's inhumanity to man was a little much to stomach.

"No, the case reports were in drug abusers who used bleach to sterilize their needles, so they only received a negligible dose. And the only case report of a fatality caused by bleach in the bloodstream was when a patient accidentally received it in her dialysis fluid. As far as I can tell, this is the first time there's been an _intentional_ death with IV bleach."

Catherine wasn't quite sure how she should feel about that. It somehow made her feel slightly better that this hadn't been attempted before, that mankind had only just now sunk to this new depth. On the other hand, though, first cases were tough. There were no experts on whom to lean, no experience with the crime, no tried and true path to solving the case. A first case made you a pioneer and, while that had the potential to be exhilarating, it was nonetheless daunting.

Then again, she had never been one to be afraid of risk. It was what made life worthwhile. Sometimes you fell flat on your face, sometimes you made out like a bandit, sometimes you just got by. But it was all a challenge. And Catherine was nothing if not up to a challenge. She grinned at the doctor. "Well, there's a first time for everything, Albert. Guess that makes me Christopher Columbus."

"Just don't fall off the edge of the world," he deadpanned to her retreating figure before turning back to the remaining papers on the bench.

XXXXXXXXX

"I hate these stupid phone trees," Warrick grumbled, pressing the star key to begin the recording yet again. It was the third time he'd heard the main menu for LaserJet Logistics, Inc. He'd gotten distracted by looking at Kim's note the last two times and had missed the desired option, compelling him to start over.

Pushing the plastic-encased note away from him to avoid temptation, he groaned as the sickeningly sweet female voice began its recorded drone again, wiping a hand across his forehead as he forced himself to pay attention to the choices. "Thank you for calling LaserJet Logistics. Your call is very important to us..."

"Bite me," he replied aloud, wishing the recording could hear him. Lowering his head onto his folded arms, he listened intently as the recorded voice implored him to listen for the option that would meet his needs. _Good Lord, I feel like I'm looking for the right woman..._

By the time number seven gave him the opportunity to speak with a real person, he was very nearly at the end of his rope. Pressing the corresponding button on the speakerphone quickly, he reached across the table for his pen as he waited impatiently for the spontaneous sounds of humanity on the other end of the line.

When he only heard the same syrupy female croon, "We're sorry. Our office is closed. Our hours are Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. eastern time. Please try your call again later," it took every ounce of his self-control to curb the desire to throw the telephone across the room.

Looking up at the clock, he noted that he had several hours to wait before he could attempt the call again. Punching the end button on the phone, he snappishly told the recording, "You're not the least bit sorry."

Picking up the note, he stalked out of the breakroom in search of Greg. The lab tech was getting better at evidence processing all the time, and Warrick did his best to provide him with ample opportunity to hone his skills. Now seemed like as good a time as any to let him practice.

He heard the din long before he saw its origin. Greg had the stereo system's volume set just this side of waking the dead, his head bobbing rhythmically to the heavy guitar riff emanating from the speakers. With a wince and a concerted effort not to cover his ears, the CSI walked over to the radio and switched it off. The DNA technician glanced up sharply to discover who had dared to do such a thing and grinned when he saw the culprit. "Hey, man, cutting off Hoobastank borders on blasphemy."

"Hoobastank?" Warrick repeated. "I think that _name_ borders on blasphemy."

"They're a good band," the young scientist whined. "Don't knock 'em till you try 'em."

"Whatever," the taller man shrugged. "Thought you might want to get out of the lab for a while. Do some real CSI work. Of course, if you'd rather listen to Hoobastank..."

"No, that's OK," the technician broke in quickly. "I'll listen to them later. What's up?"

Warrick smiled. "We need a ten-card and a DNA sample from the vic. Thought you might like to go down to the morgue and get them. You can compare the DNA to the samples from the scene, and then you can help me run through a few things on the case if you're not too busy in here." He handed the younger man the necessary supplies.

Greg gave him a toothy grin. "Sure thing."

XXXXXXXXX

Sara clicked the mouse to move to the next picture. "How many of these did Catherine take?" she complained. This one looked exactly the same as the last four. _Another close-up of her face. Great._ "What exactly am I supposed to be looking for here?"

Grissom sighed. "I don't know, Sara. Anything that looks familiar."

She heaved an irritated sigh and had to bite back the acerbic response on the tip of her tongue. _And how **exactly** is a woman I've never seen before going to look familiar?_ She knew it wasn't his fault, that the stress of this case was making her peevish, but it didn't prevent her annoyance.

Tapping the button on the mouse again, she exhaled gratefully when she saw a different angle, one that showed the whole body. "Hmm..." she said, turning her head slightly to the side as she stared at the enlarged image on the A/V lab's screen.

"What?" her companion asked, straightening stiffly his chair. "Do you see something?"

"Maybe..." she responded absently, still staring at the picture. There was something vaguely familiar about it, but she couldn't quite place it.

Grissom narrowed his eyes at the screen in response, trying to figure out what had caught her attention. Marilyn Ellis lay propped against the leg of a large canopy bed, her eyes open and fixed, wrists bound loosely with hosiery. She looked pale and somber but, apart from the staring eyes and restrained wrists, she didn't look like the victim of a violent death. She almost looked... peaceful.

He turned his gaze to Sara, trying to read her reaction to the photograph. Her eyes were fastened to the screen, and she barely moved as she remained deep in thought. For a fleeting moment, the absurd notion crossed his mind that she had been turned into stone by the image. And, indeed, the only indications that she was not a statue were the occasional blinking of her eyes and the sporadic clenching of her jaw.

Then, suddenly, the spell was broken by her exultant voice. "That's it!" she cried. And, before he knew what had happened, she pushed her chair forcefully back from the table and was gone, her long-legged stride carrying her swiftly away.

It took his brain a few seconds to process what had happened but, when it did, the fear that poured into his system propelled him out of his seat and down the hall in pursuit. _Where the hell is she going? She's supposed to stay with me!_ "Sara!" He fairly yelled her name.

The fear made him fast, and he soon caught sight of her as she pushed open the door to his office. The surging adrenaline heightened his awareness, and his eyes took in their surroundings at a glance, searching intently for suspicious characters and threats to her safety. Two final steps carried him into the office behind her, his elbow slamming the door ferociously against the wall before its continued momentum then shut it behind them.

"Sara!" His voice was strangled and angry, and he grabbed her from behind, turning her to face him almost violently. His hands gripped her upper arms tightly, and her eyes widened with shock as she saw his expression. Nostrils flaring, he spoke just inches from her face. "You are not to do that _ever_ again! Do you understand me?"

At any other time, those words would have enraged her and spurred her to fight. But here, now, seeing his reddened face, hearing his heaving breaths, looking into his panicked eyes, her only desire was to take away the fear, to soothe the worry. The terror had dilated his pupils, and she felt as if she were looking into his very soul, seeing deeper into the heart of this man than she ever had. And she couldn't look away.

Slowly, gently, she reached her hand up to his cheek, echoing her actions from two years earlier, caressing his now bearded skin soothingly, almost lovingly. His eyes momentarily fluttered closed at her touch, his cheek almost imperceptibly leaning toward her hand. When his eyes opened to meet her own once more, the panic had diminished somewhat, but it was still there, and she ached with the knowledge that she had caused it. "I'm sorry, Gil. I'm sorry I scared you so much."

He nodded as he let go of her arms, her hand correspondingly falling from his cheek. The subsiding adrenaline sapping his energy rapidly, he dropped heavily onto the couch behind him. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the leather as he wiped a hand across his face, sighing deeply as he willed his pounding heart to return to its normal rhythm. _If only you knew just **how **much_, he thought.

It wasn't until many hours later that he realized it was the first time he'd ever heard her use his Christian name.

**TBC...**


	10. A Collection of Evidence

**A/N: **I really do have to apologize for the fact that it's been a week and a half since I updated. I've just been slammed at work and elsewhere and have had no time to write. Sometimes real life gets in the way of my little fantasy world. Is it a bad thing that that bothers me? :)

Thank you to all who have reviewed this story. I appreciate the feedback so much! I posted the last chapter right before the upgrade, so I'm hoping that's the reason I didn't get as many reviews with the last chapter and not just that it was not up to par. :) Consider that my longwinded way of saying, "Please review!" (even if it's no good - I promise I can take it!) :)

**Spoilers: **"Burden of Proof" (can you tell I liked that episode?) :)

**Disclaimer: **Insert your own witty "I don't own _CSI:_ but wish I did" statement here. I've exhausted my supply. :)

**Chapter 10: A Collection of Evidence**

Sara continued to watch him, more than a little apprehensive about his rapid breathing. When the seconds stretched toward a full minute, she could bear his silent struggle no longer. "Grissom, are you OK?" she asked, her voice unable to mask the concern.

The fight-or-flight mentality hadn't completely left him, and he desperately needed a few more seconds for its effects to dissipate. Without opening his eyes, he nodded slightly, hoping the minuscule gesture would mollify her. True to form, a determined Sara remained standing in front of him, clearly dissatisfied with his response. He had known she wouldn't be appeased easily, but he was grateful for the temporary, if too short, reprieve his nod had purchased.

Taking one final deep breath, he willed himself to speak in a normal voice as he opened his eyes to meet hers. "It takes a while for an old man like me to recover from a near heart attack, Sara." The humor had its desired effect on both of them, dispelling the tension and provoking soft smiles.

"You're not old. They say you're only as old as you feel," she said, dropping her gaze from his timidly.

"Ah," he responded, rising unsteadily from the couch. His body felt every bit of its 48 years in that instant. His knees protested in sharp pops, his back reminded him painfully of the reason he avoided sleeping on his couch, and his thigh muscles felt rubbery and inadequate to support his weight. "If that's the case, I must be Methuselah," he chuckled, as much to keep from groaning as from humor.

She smiled, grateful that he seemed to have recovered from the scare. But, as much as she enjoyed this playful Grissom and wanted him to stick around, she still felt a little guilty about her earlier actions. "I really am sorry."

His face turned serious as he looked at her. "I know." His voice was gentle, forgiving. "Just don't do it again. Please. I really don't think my heart can take it."

A little taken aback by the multiple levels of meaning that could potentially underlie that particular statement, Sara simply nodded, making the conscious choice to accept it at face value. Eager to change the subject before it got too uncomfortable for both of them, she suddenly remembered why she had come into his office in the first place. "Oh!" she exclaimed brightly. "I had a reason for coming in here. I almost forgot," she said, turning toward the files in the corner.

"Did you remember something?" her supervisor asked, his natural intellectual curiosity taking over as he watched her sort through the stack of old case files, quickly discarding two before she pulled out the one she was seeking.

Dropping the thick folder onto his desk, Sara flipped through pages until she found the case photos. Thumbing through them with ease, she stopped at one, slapping her index finger down onto it as she exclaimed, "Yes!" And, before he could react, she just as quickly shut the case file and headed towards the office door.

Grissom hated being off-balance, and everything about this case was making him feel that he was two steps behind. He'd been two steps behind Brass when the cop had showed up on his doorstep with Sara in tow, he'd been two steps behind his team when they filled him in on the case, and he'd been at least two steps behind Sara all night. He watched in silent consternation as she walked towards his door, seemingly oblivious to his request for her to stay with him at all times and his resultant mind-numbing panic when she ignored it. And, while he was angry that they were about to repeat the same drama they had just completed, he felt utterly powerless to stop it.

Thankfully, he didn't have to. When she reached the door, Sara turned toward him, one eyebrow arched, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Coming?"

Rolling his eyes at her obvious amusement, he bowed his head to prevent her from seeing the smile that tugged at his own lips, a small sigh of gratitude escaping quietly. "Yes, dear," he muttered under his breath, preceding her into the hallway before taking her elbow to gently guide her back to the A/V lab. With eyes darting quickly towards those passing them, Grissom missed the shy smile that graced his companion's beautiful face.

XXXXXXXXX

Nick's thoughts were myriad as he drove back towards the lab. The DNA, hair, and fingerprint samples from each member of the Ellis family sat safely in his kit in the passenger seat, and he was eager for processing to begin. It had nearly broken his heart to see the faces of three saddened children, their mother forever taken from them. Little Madeline had reminded him so much of his youngest niece that he had even mistakenly called her Emily once, and he thought he would break down in sobs when she had looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.

It was times like those that Nick hated his job. With a passion. There were so many things to love about it – the closure you could provide for the victims, the justice you could bring for all of society, the challenge you could fulfill by solving the puzzle. But, no matter how many things you _could_ do, you still couldn't bring the victim back. Whether or not they were killed, a part of them was stolen when they became victims, and it would be gone forever.

But this case was even more personal. This was Sara. He felt like he had known her forever, like she was one of his sisters. He had never known how to act towards his loved ones in crisis situations, so he always opted to act normally. When his younger sister Jennifer had first been diagnosed with leukemia at age 6, he was the only one in the household who hadn't treated her with kid gloves. He vividly remembered Jenny running into the house and proudly explaining to their mother how Nicky had taught her to ride his bike and how she had ridden it down the street by herself. He would never forget the withering stare his mother had given him at that moment and the tongue-lashing he had gotten from her later. But the other memories he had of that incident included a brilliant smile on his sister's face and the day a now 30-year-old Jenny had called him to tell him how grateful she was that he had treated her normally. He had long ago memorized her words: "Nicky, you always loved me for being your sister. You didn't see me as your sister with cancer."

Now his adopted sister Sara was affected by a human cancer, the same one who had destroyed Marilyn Ellis, and he still didn't know of a better way to act toward her than just like he always did. But, this time, he was not a helpless nine-year-old, and he vowed to do everything he could to annihilate this particular cancer.

Pulling into the parking lot at the crime lab, he gathered up his kit and headed inside. Dropping off the fingerprints with Jacqui, he next walked into Greg's DNA lab, only minimally surprised to find the technician was not there. Putting the samples down on the counter, he debated paging the quirky young man but decided to go in search of him instead. Turning the corner, he strode toward the layout room, stopping short at the door as he took in the sight before him.

Greg and Warrick were bent over a plethora of photographs from the Ellis crime scene, each scientist holding a magnifying glass and doing everything in their power to make sure nothing was missed. "I told you Sara was thorough," Nick spoke through a wide grin.

"You can say that again," Greg groaned. "I love her, but this is overkill." He moved his hand over the table in a sweeping gesture as he spoke.

"Hey, what do you know about overkill, rook?" Warrick teased. At the exasperated look the young man shot him, he grinned and looked up at Nick. "Can you believe this guy? Wants to be a CSI but not willing to do the grunt work."

"Oh, I'm willing," the technician amended in a slightly more submissive tone. "I just need a break from it for a little bit."

"Well, it's a good thing I brought you back some DNA and hair samples then, Greggo," Nick replied with a smile. "From each of the Ellis family members. The samples are on your counter. We'll save the rest of the pictures for when you get back," he added as the young man stood to leave.

Greg rolled his eyes but, to his credit, made no smart-mouthed statement in response.

"What'd you find out from the printer company?" Nick asked his colleague after the technician left.

"That they're closed until 5:30," Warrick retorted. "And I had to sit through one of those stupid phone trees to find out that much. _'Thank you for calling...'_" he mimicked. Sighing, he said, "I hate those things."

"I noticed," his partner responded with a grin.

Glancing at his watch, Warrick said, "At least there's only a couple more hours before I can try and get some answers. We need a lead in the worst way."

Nick nodded. "Too true. Did you find anything here?" he asked, gesturing to the crime scene photos as he picked up Greg's discarded magnifying glass.

"Nope." Looking down at the scattered pictures covering every square inch of table space, Warrick sighed. "This really is overkill."

The Texan laughed as he replied, "That's the story of Sara's life, man."

XXXXXXXXX

With single-minded determination, Catherine strode toward the A/V lab, hoping to give its occupants an update on what she'd discovered from Dr. Robbins and to get their feedback on the case. She had nearly reached her destination when she saw her colleagues approaching from the opposite direction, and the sight surprised her, but only mildly. Grissom's hand rested protectively on Sara's elbow as he looked suspiciously at the activity around him, guiding her steadily toward the safety of the lab. This macho side of her friend was unexpected and... well,... sweet. And that was one word she had _never_ thought she'd use to describe Gil Grissom. But, when it came to Sara, all bets were off. _Gil, I didn't think you'd ever pull your head out of the microscope, but this is a good start. Even without the "vegetation."_

That thought brought a smile to her face, but she covered quickly by calling out to them. "Hey."

"Hey, Cath," Sara responded, moving fluidly past her into the lab with a thick case file in hand. The blonde looked at Grissom with arched eyebrows, but he merely shrugged as he responded, "She hasn't told me what she's found either." He looked at Sara as he spoke, the slightly accusatory tone in his voice just loud enough to reach her ears.

She grinned as she glanced up at them. "Stop whining. I'm about to tell you," she said as she opened the folder to the page she had previously found, pointing with a slender finger to a particular photograph. "Come and look."

Grissom narrowed his eyes at the brunette in mock disapproval before returning his gaze to Catherine, gesturing with his head for her to precede him into the room. She complied but allowed him to walk ahead of her towards the table, wanting to observe the interaction between her colleagues. She watched as Sara lifted her eyes to meet Grissom's, a hint of a smile playing at her lips, and he smirked in return. The tension that had recently loomed over the pair like some great, gloomy cloud was gone, at least for the moment, and it pleased her immensely to see that each of them seemed happy to be in the presence of the other.

You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to see the mutual attraction between Gil and Sara. Their flirtatious banter had often been the subject of water-cooler gossip around CSI, and an office pool had long ago been started regarding the date of their eventual "hook-up," as Greg had so charmingly phrased it. Warrick and Nick even had an ongoing bet as to the circumstances surrounding said rendezvous – with Warrick believing the two would get into a massive fight that would end with their passions being channeled into some very physical activity, and Nick opting for the more romantic notion of a tearful Sara receiving a little more than just comfort from her boss.

But Catherine could see that the feelings between the two went much deeper than mere physical attraction and had steadfastly refused to participate in adolescent discussions and wagers regarding her best friend's inability to express his feelings to a woman he so clearly cared about. She had done what she could to help advance their relationship, but Gil had never responded well to being pushed, his obstinacy sometimes downright frustrating. So she had, for the most part, observed from afar, pushing only when necessary and silently hoping that eventually the two of them would come to realize what she had known for a while – that they adored each other.

"Cath? Care to join us?" Grissom's sarcasm broke through her reverie, his cocked head and raised eyebrow almost comical as he eyed her with curiosity.

She smiled with exaggerated sweetness. "Why, yes, sir," she remarked, crossing to the table quickly.

Sara turned the folder slightly to give the blonde a better view of the photograph in the case file. "This is from an unsolved case from two years ago. Anything look familiar?"

The older CSI peered closely at the picture, recognizing immediately what had caught the brunette's eye. She responded excitedly. "Yeah! Her wrists are tied the same way our vic's were."

"Exactly," Sara replied, pressing a button on the computer to display the photo of Marilyn Ellis' body on the overhead screen. "See," she said, walking towards the wall to point as she spoke. "The material is not the same – our vic was bound with pantyhose, this one was tied with fishing net – but both sets of bindings are looped across each wrist in a similar figure-eight pattern."

She looked back at Grissom as she finished, trying to judge his reaction to this new information. He stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully, looking closely at the screen.

It was Catherine who spoke first. "What do you think, Gil?"

When he turned to look at her, the blonde saw the fiery undercurrent in his eyes before he brought it quickly under control. When he spoke, his tone was clipped and almost angry, but somehow she knew it wasn't directed at her. "I think we've just found another of our killer's victims."

She nodded and watched, fascinated, as his eyes became fearful. He swung his head around rapidly to face Sara and asked, "Was this your case?"

"No, actually, it was pretty serendipitous that I even knew about it," the younger woman replied. "It was in the stack of cold cases I took home with me a couple of days ago. There was something about it that just didn't sit right with me," she mused thoughtfully.

"Hmm," Grissom replied. He offered no further verbal elaboration, but his mannerisms spoke volumes. He was bothered by something but was either unwilling or unable to express it.

Catherine watched him closely, knowing he was struggling with the sixth sense that was the source of his current discomfort. He rarely gave voice to his intuitions, believing them to be akin to voodoo in their scientific merit. And she knew better than to press. Whatever it was would come out in due time.

She opted instead to refocus on the case, picking up the file. "So who is this new vic? Or this _old_ vic, I should say." Flipping to the beginning of the folder, she read, "Ally Shea, age 28. Found dead in her apartment in August 2002 with a puncture wound and related bruising in the neck area. Cause of death...," she paused as she flipped to the coroner's report, "...was cardiac arrest due to the injection of a lethal amount of sodium chloride into the carotid artery. Well, isn't that interesting," she commented, remembering for the first time why she had come here in the first place. She still hadn't told them the results of the Ellis autopsy.

Grissom looked at her curiously. "Why 'interesting'?"

"Well," Catherine replied, flipping through a few more pages in the Shea file before closing it and dropping it back onto the table. "Because Marilyn Ellis was killed by the injection of a lethal amount of sodium hypochlorite."

"Bleach?" he asked, incredulous.

"Bingo," she replied. "Ugly way to die, huh?" Catherine shook her head sadly. She didn't want to be the one who had to tell three kids their mother had died in such a horrible way. Mentally shaking herself to clear the thoughts, she continued, "But what's really weird about the Ellis case is that the bindings aren't very restrictive. They're loosely placed and wouldn't have done much to restrain her. And it looks like this vic is the same way."

"Yeah, I noticed that, too," Sara replied. "You wouldn't just _let _somebody inject you in the carotid artery. Drugged, maybe?" She flipped through the file to find the toxicology results on Ally Shea.

Catherine shook her head. "Nothing but bleach found in Marilyn Ellis."

Sara nodded her acknowledgment as she continued to page through the Shea file. When she found the tox screen, she looked up at her colleagues. "The only abnormality was trace amounts of fluoride. Does that mean anything to either of you?"

Catherine shook her head quickly, but Grissom's brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he shook his head slowly and shrugged. "Too much oral hygiene?" he joked, prompting smiles from his female companions.

"There's no such thing as too much oral hygiene," Sara quipped without missing a beat. "But it's good to know our resident genius can be wrong on occasion." She flashed a winning smile and winked at him as Catherine looked on in fascination, ecstatic to see the playful interaction between the two.

He grinned as he shook his head, knowing he'd been bested. "Getting back to the case..." he said, looking with mock disapproval at Sara. "So, if the victims weren't bound or drugged, how did our killer inject them?"

The two women contemplated for a moment before Sara replied, "Did they know the perp? And trusted him enough to allow him to inject them?"

The blonde looked skeptical. "It's possible," she replied. "There was no sign of forced entry at the Ellis house."

Sara flipped through the Shea file again before responding. "None here either."

The older female still wasn't convinced. "But why would they let him inject them? What did they think he was giving them?"

The brunette shook her head in frustration and replied honestly, "I don't know."

Grissom interjected, "It still brings up an interesting point. How did the killer get into the victims' houses? Cath, cross-reference the victims' phone records for the last month or so before they died. See if there are any numbers that show up on both sets." He shrugged and said, "It's probably a long shot, but maybe we'll get lucky."

"I'm on it," she replied, turning to leave. But, before she walked out, she had to speak her peace to her younger counterpart. If nothing else, she wanted Sara to know how concerned she had been – how concerned they _all _had been – for her. "Sara," she started, waiting for her colleague to look up before continuing. When she did, Catherine realized that a lengthy discourse on how much they cared about her was neither her nor Sara's style. Deciding brevity was the more befitting approach, she said simply, "Take care of yourself, OK?" Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked out without a backward glance.

Sara stared at the empty doorframe for a second longer before returning her attention to the Shea case file. She was touched at the obvious concern for her that each of her colleagues had displayed – Brass, Warrick, Nick, Catherine, even Grissom. They had all shown her in their own ways that they cared about her, and she felt herself beginning to get emotional. She couldn't allow that, not here and certainly not in present company. Exhaling heavily, she forced her attention onto the case file with no small amount of effort.

Grissom watched her closely, taking in the weary sigh and the slumped shoulders. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see that shift had ended an hour ago, and he quickly came to a decision. "Sara," he said. When she looked up at him, he smiled and nodded towards the door. "It's late. Let's go home."

**TBC...**


	11. Food for Thought

**A/N: **Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You guys rock! :) It does my little heart good to see that y'all are enjoying it.

Please forgive my feeble attempt at being bilingual. You'd think, after five years of Spanish in school, one would be somewhat proficient at it but, in my case, no. :) I did the best I could with my old college textbook and an Internet language translator, but I hope those of you who really speak the language will give me some grace if it's incorrect.

I'm not sure if the term "PC" is known to everyone, especially to those outside the US. It means "politically correct" and is a fairly common catchphrase here; it's usually used as terminology for language that is so watered-down that it couldn't possibly offend anyone. Just thought I'd define that for those of you lucky enough to not have it crammed down your throat at every opportunity. :)

**Spoilers: **None

**Disclaimer: **I'm not a _CSI:_ owner or writer, but I play one on the Internet. :)

**Chapter 11: Food for Thought**

To say Sara was startled by his comment would have been an understatement. It quite literally rendered her speechless, and she stood immobilized for a long moment before she realized he was awaiting her response. When she did, she merely nodded, still muted by shock, and began to slowly gather the contents of the Shea case file.

She watched as Grissom, seemingly unfazed by either his own statement or her reaction to it, closed the computerized photographs and walked towards the door, pausing at the entrance to wait for her. She absently followed him down the hall and to his Denali, too engrossed in her own stunned thoughts to absorb his bemused expression.

She didn't know why a comment as innocuous as, "Let's go home," could both thrill and frustrate her to the core. After all, she had used those same three words herself on a hundred separate occasions with Nick, several times with Warrick, once or twice with Catherine. For that matter, she'd even uttered them once to Grissom himself. At the conclusion of a harrowing case involving a pair of teenagers who had drunk morphine liquid in a misguided attempt to be Romeo and Juliet, she had used those words to herd him out of his office after they'd each worked three consecutive days of double shifts.

But they hadn't been going to the same "home" then. Maybe that's why the words sounded so much more intimate this time. Maybe it was because Grissom was saying them to her rather than vice versa. Or maybe it was just because she wanted them to mean something more than their literal definitions.

At first, Grissom welcomed the quiet drive, as he had initially been afraid that Sara would call him on the flirtatious nature of his comment. He never really set out to say things like that but, on occasion, his feelings would overflow into his words before he could stop them. The truth was, he was both excited and terrified that she would be staying with him. And he felt a little guilty about both emotions.

As the stillness stretched out between them, it became palpable, and his thoughts wandered to what she must be thinking. He could remember the one time she had said those words to him. The case had been exhausting both mentally and physically, and it all came down to the desire of two teenagers to be together over their parents' objections. He and Sara eventually discovered that the star-crossed pair, hoping to feign suicide in a desperate bid to get their parents' attention, had died accidentally because they'd followed the dosage label on the prescription bottle of morphine left over from a terminally ill grandmother. Unfortunately, that dose had been 40 times the amount that a person who didn't routinely take narcotics would be given. The official cause of death was respiratory arrest. But Sara's description had been more accurate: "They weren't trying to die. They were just trying to get their parents to listen. This was a senseless tragedy that could have been avoided if everyone hadn't been so caught up in themselves. Those kids died because of selfishness."

When the silence at last became oppressive, Grissom could bear it no longer. "What are you thinking?" He really did want to know, if only to see if he had guessed her thoughts correctly.

The question shook her out of her reverie. "Huh? Oh, uh... nothing really. Just about a case." She didn't elaborate further, not really wanting him to know which case or the reasons behind the thoughts. Glancing about quickly for something to divert his attention, it surprised her to see that they were stopped at a traffic light only a few blocks from the interstate's on-ramp. They had come several miles without her really noticing. Suddenly, she saw something that caught her eye. "What day is today?" she asked, almost frantically.

"What?" The distress in her voice caught him off guard. He looked down at his watch. "Um... Wednesday."

"Crap." She turned to face him then, an apologetic look in her eyes. "I really hate to ask you this, but, um..." She stopped, biting her lip as she considered the situation. He was being so nice, and she had no desire to ruin things by being inconsiderate. Maybe she could skip this week...

When she didn't continue, he glanced sideways at her. The light turned green, and he pushed in the accelerator as he spoke. "What is it, Sara?"

_Just ask him. The worst he can do is say no_. She pointed to a small roadside stand with a battered truck parked beside it. "Um, I usually stop at that produce stand on Wednesdays. The owner kind of knows me now, and she'd worry if I didn't show up. Would it be OK if we stopped? It'll only take a minute."

"Of course we can." He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice. Did she really think he'd deny her such a simple request? He sighed as he maneuvered the big SUV onto the shoulder and turned off the engine.

They had not even gotten their feet firmly on the ground when a yell of "Sarita!" came from inside the dilapidated shack. Grissom was astounded to see a smile come across Sara's face as she saw a gnarled elderly woman with a matching grin. Glancing over at him as they walked towards the stand, she shrugged, saying quietly, "I like to buy her produce. She's trying to help support her family back in Mexico, and she's all alone here. I feel for her." She shrugged and added with a grin, "Plus, she's teaching me Spanish."

Ducking under the hooded front of the produce stand, she spoke happily to its occupant. _"Hola!"_

"_Hola, Sarita! Buenos días!"_ Eying Grissom through narrowed eyes, the old woman said, _"Quien es el?"_

"This is my boss, Gil Gri-"

The old woman cut her off with a cluck of the tongue. _"En español, Sarita."_

_"Sí,"_ Sara said with a chuckle. "Um... _es mi..._ uh..." She thought for a moment and finally gave up on trying to remember the Spanish word for "boss," opting instead for one she hoped he wouldn't mind. _"...amigo,_ Gil Grissom."

She looked over at him timidly, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyes were unreadable behind sunglasses, and his face was nearly impassive as well, but the slight upward curvature of his lips gave away the fact that he was pleased with her wording change. With a smile, she informed him, "Grissom, this is my friend, Lupe Hidalgo."

"_Ee_-dalgo." Lupe corrected Sara's mispronunciation of the silent "H" in her last name.

"_Ee_-dalgo," the younger woman dutifully repeated.

Giving Grissom a quick once-over, Lupe nodded approvingly and fixed the younger woman with a knowing glance as she said, _"Es muy hermoso. Hace una pareja agradable."_ Sara shook her head in confusion. She understood that Lupe had said he was handsome, but the last part was a little beyond her rudimentary skills.

Grissom looked questioningly at Sara, patiently awaiting her translation. Hating herself for the slow flush that crept up her cheeks, she shrugged and said, "Uh... she said you're very handsome, but that last part was a little beyond me."

Lupe looked at her with surprise. _"Sarita, no comprendes?"_

But, to Sara's great surprise, her boss broke in. _"Gracias, Señora,"_ he said with perfect intonation. _"Estoy de acuerdo."_ As he spoke, he looked directly at Sara. With a mischievous wink, he intrepeted, "She said we make a nice couple. I just agreed with her." And, for the second time that morning, she was stunned speechless.

Lupe, on the other hand, was overjoyed at this unexpected turn of events. She began to chatter in her native language, and the younger woman could only pick up the odd word here and there. Grissom, however, participated fully in the conversation, leaving his astounded counterpart to wonder how he came to be fluent in Spanish. After a few minutes of lively dialogue, he turned to Sara. "She says the tomatoes and corn are especially good today."

"Sarita, good... uh... _como se dice..._ good fruit." She punctuated her statement with an emphatic point at the aforementioned fruit, proud that she had remembered the English word without prompting. _"Vaya."_ She gestured toward the interior of the stand, indicating that they should inspect her wares.

Sara nodded and headed off towards the fruit, with Grissom following closely behind. But, as he walked past Lupe, the older woman suddenly grabbed his arm. Waiting until he looked at her, she fixed him with a serious look and said, _"Señor, tratarla bien. Ella te quiere."_ She then dropped his arm and ambled off toward her pickup, ignoring his dumbfounded stare.

But Grissom could not believe his ears. _Treat her well? She loves me? Did I hear that right?_ He knew he had, but he could not fathom how Lupe had come by this knowledge. Had Sara confessed her feelings to the old woman? He quickly dismissed that thought, knowing she was much too private for a revelation of such magnitude to an acquaintance at a roadside produce stand. But that left him with only the questionable ramblings of an elderly stranger, unreliable to even be considered as evidence. Why then had her statement so enraptured his heart?

Sara's voice shook him out of his musings. "Hey, Griss? Wanna come help me decide?" He nodded and walked toward her, smiling a little at the confusion evident on her face. Turning to face him, she held out the objects of her deliberation. "Apples or oranges?"

He laughed out loud then, and seeing her surprised expression amused him all the more. "Boy, you're taking a walk on the wild side, Sara. Why don't you really live on the edge? I think I saw some bananas over there."

She pursed her lips into a pouting smirk before responding, "You are _so_ less than helpful."

"Hey, come on, I'm helpful," he argued, taking her basket in a conciliatory gesture and cocking his head in thought as he considered the options. "Go with the oranges." Upon seeing her quizzical look, he queried, "What? I like oranges." When she continued to stare at him, he finally dropped his head shyly and added, "They remind me of home."

She smiled warmly as she obligingly dropped several of the colorful fruits into the basket. His timid admission had pleased her more than she could imagine, but she knew he wasn't comfortable sharing personal information. Trying to put him more at ease, she changed the subject. "So I didn't know you spoke Spanish."

He grinned. "I'm from California. What'd you expect?"

She shot him a mock glare as she moved to a table covered in plump red tomatoes, expertly selecting three of the riper ones. "Well, so am I, wise guy. _And_ I took three years of Spanish in school, but I still can't speak it to save my life."

"Sara, you're from San Francisco. You'd be more likely to speak Chinese than Spanish." Seeing her mildly annoyed pout, he smiled and continued. "I, on the other hand, grew up three hours from the Mexican border. If I didn't speak Spanish, I couldn't have shopped at half the stores in my neighborhood."

She chuckled as she looked over a table covered in beans, mentally adding the interesting tidbit to her rapidly growing Grissom file. She wanted so badly to ask him more about his childhood, to find out everything she could about this man who so fascinated her. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that it surprised her when he grabbed her arm as she reached for lima beans. He shook his head when she looked up. "Not those. Please."

The smile that originally developed at his words faded when she saw his pained expression. "You don't like lima beans?"

He shook his head again, meeting her eyes and trying his best to smile. "Bad memories. I had this stomach virus when I was a kid and haven't eaten them since." He shuddered slightly, a move that was vaguely reminiscient of a little boy, and she found it completely endearing.

Remembering his manners, he peered at her closely, his desire to be a good host warring with his aversion to the offending vegetable. "Of course, if you really like them, it's OK if we get some."

She smiled as she dropped the beans. "Nah. I can take 'em or leave 'em."

He heaved a sigh of relief. "Good. Let's leave 'em."

She laughed as he steered her away from the table.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara's eyes widened when they pulled into the grocery store's parking lot, and she looked at Grissom quizzically. He shrugged in reply. "Fresh produce aside, I don't have much in my house that can sustain a vegetarian. Besides, I have no idea what you like to eat, so I probably don't have your favorite foods. I thought we should remedy that problem."

The thought that he was trying to make her feel at home in his house warmed her heart, and she was smiling as they stepped out of the SUV. Maybe this situation wasn't as bad as she had originally thought it would be. As a matter of fact, threatening note from crazed serial killer notwithstanding, she was pretty happy to be here right now. After all, she was staying with the most intelligent man she'd ever come across, able to bounce ideas off of him whenever she wanted, watch how he behaved in his own home, maybe even see him in less professional attire again... _Down, girl. Don't go there._ She shook her head to clear the inappropriate thoughts as she followed him across the parking lot.

He pulled a shopping cart from a column at the front of the store and gestured for Sara to go ahead of him. "You lead, I'll follow."

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards, and she started to do as requested. But it didn't take long for her to realize that the store's layout was unfamiliar, and she would never be able to find things quickly. She stopped and looked at him. "Um... I don't really know where I'm going in here."

He nodded, understanding the problem immediately. "Why don't we just go down every aisle? That way, we don't miss anything important. For either of us," he added with a smile.

"Sounds like a plan."

Sara found the shopping trip an entertaining educational experience. It didn't take long for her to discover that Grissom was meticulously accurate in his search for value ("The spaghetti's only 10.5 cents an ounce, as opposed to 12 for that linguini"), methodically unhealthy in his desire for taste ("But I don't look for what's better for me. I just buy what I like. And I like white bread"), and maddeningly consistent in his disdain for desserts ("I've never seen the attraction of sweets").

Grissom wasn't sure he'd ever actually enjoyed a trip to the grocery store before. He'd always seen it as something of a utilitarian chore and, thus, one to be completed in as expedient a manner as possible. But Sara made it... fun. Her analysis of various pasta values ("But linguini is a larger noodle than spaghetti so, even though it's $1.48 rather than $1.27, it's more bang for the buck"), her scientific approach to choosing bread ("You know, it's been documented that wheat bread is more nutritious than white"), and her paradoxical passion for all things sweet ("Twizzlers are the fifth food group, you know") all combined to make the task altogether a pleasurable one.

By the time they started down the frozen food aisle, their cart was nearly full and Grissom found himself disappointed that the shopping spree was nearing its conclusion. Leaving her side briefly, he walked to the end of the aisle to retrieve a gallon of milk, choosing one from the back of the shelf and checking to ensure the date emblazoned on its plastic surface was yet many days hence. When he turned back, he observed her for a long moment as she opened various freezer doors to make selections from the contents inside. He allowed himself to fully absorb the fact that he was enjoying himself and the reasons behind it. The playful conversation, the education on her likes and dislikes, even the shopping itself. But he knew that it all came down to the fact that he just enjoyed spending time with her, and it didn't really matter what they were doing.

It came as no great revelation that he found her company enjoyable. He'd known that for years, but his usual approach was to try not to focus on how much he liked being around her. Unfortunately, with the amount of time they would be spending together in the coming weeks, his typical solution would become increasingly difficult to enact. But he didn't want to think about the consequences of straying from his normal path. Forcing away the inevitable thoughts of how he would feel once she left his home, he chose instead to live for the moment and take pleasure in what he had available to him now – Sara's presence.

Returning to stand beside her, he found her staring contemplatively at one of the freezers. When he saw its contents, he laughed aloud. "Ice cream?"

She turned to face him with a frown. "Yeah. So?"

He smirked. "How is it that a vegetarian has such a sweet tooth? I thought you people were supposed to be healthier than the rest of us."

"'You people'?" She repeated with a mock glare, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Geez, Grissom, how _very_ PC of you. You make it sound like we're alien creatures or some undesirable species of insect. You know, we're really not that unusual. And, besides, everybody likes ice cream. It's a well-known fact." Her twitching lips belied her stern tone.

He pursed his lips to keep from smiling. "I never said you were aliens or insects. And, for your information, there _are_ no undesirable insects. Oh, and I beg to differ with your ice cream comment. I would be the exception to that so-called 'well-known fact.'"

"What?" She gaped at him. "You really don't like ice cream? Or are you just trying to prove me wrong?"

He shook his head as the left side of his mouth climbed upwards into a lopsided grin. "Much as I do enjoy proving you wrong, that's not my goal here. I just really don't like ice cream. Who knows, maybe I had too much as a kid. Yuck."

"What brand did you have?"

"Huh?" The question caught him by surprise. "I don't know. Some generic brand, I guess. We never really had an overabundance of money."

"Well, that explains it," she responded. "'Yuck' is the scientifically correct term to describe store-brand, which is often incorrectly labeled as ice cream. Really, it's ice crap." She grinned when he laughed. Pointing to the freezer as she spoke, she said, "This is the good stuff, Professor. Breyer's. Just a step down from homemade, and a small step at that. And, for the sake of science, you must allow me to prove it to you. Are you willing to participate in a little experiment?"

"That depends. What's your hypothesis?"

"Well, since I can't prove that everyone likes ice cream without conducting this experiment on a large representative sample, it can't be that. But I can prove that one person who claims to be the exception to that – who says he doesn't like _any_ ice cream – _will_ like Breyer's."

"And how exactly do you propose to prove – or disprove – this hypothesis of yours?"

"By having you try some. You game?"

He narrowed his eyes at her for a second before replying, weighing his options. In the end, it was her smile that was his undoing. _Just like always_, he thought as he nodded in response to her question. Rolling his eyes, he let out an exaggerated sigh. "The things I do for science."

She grinned, studying him for a second before turning her eyes back to the freezer. Scanning its contents quickly, she opened the door and selected a carton. Holding it up for him to see, she said, "We'll start you off nice and easy. Nothing exotic, just basic vanilla. We'll work you up to the good stuff next time." She dropped the container into the cart and grasped the front of the basket, pulling it down the aisle as Grissom pushed behind her.

He couldn't resist teasing her a little more. "Next time? You seem pretty assured of how this little experiment will turn out, Miss Sidle. Not very scientific of you, as it may bias your results."

She beamed at him as they rounded the corner toward the cash registers and tossed back over her shoulder casually, "I'm not worried about the results. I know my subject. Breyer's won't let me down, and you're gonna love me when I prove my hypothesis."

He knew she was talking about the ice cream, but he couldn't stop his scientific brain from invalidating her statement. _But that incorrectly assumes I don't love you already._

**TBC...**


	12. Dazed and Confused

**A/N: **Thank the good Lord for vacations, or I'd never have time to write. There's nothing like sitting on a beautiful beach to inspire you. It's just too bad I'm writing about people who live in the middle of the desert. :) Oh, well, it'd be a shame to waste such phenomenal memories. Maybe I should write a Grissom-and-Sara-go-to-the-beach story next. :)

Please remember that this story started prior to the beginning of season five, so don't hold its deviation from the canon of the actual show in the new season against me. I really don't want to delve into the myriad of possibilities that Sara's family problems might be. :)

**Spoilers: **"Play with Fire," "Too Tough to Die," "Invisible Evidence"

**Disclaimer: **I own a host of _CSI:_-related entities, in addition to my holdings in Microsoft, Middle Eastern oil, and NASA. And, if you believe that, I've also got some really nice oceanfront property in Vegas for sale. :)

**Chapter 12: Dazed and Confused**

Grissom somehow managed to open the front door with four paper sacks of groceries in his arms. Sara waited patiently behind him carrying an additional bag and pulling her rolling suitcase. Using his hip, he pushed the door open with slightly more force than he'd intended, causing it to slam back into the wall. Shaking his head, he led the way into the townhouse quickly, nearly dropping the entire armload twice before he reached the kitchen. When he finally arrived at the counter, he unceremoniously dumped everything onto it and released a grateful breath. She smirked at his less than graceful performance. "I told you that was too many to carry at once."

He shot her a look. "I got them here, didn't I? Granted, it wasn't pretty, but it got done."

"True, but wouldn't it have been easier if you had just made an extra trip?" She glanced up at him with a smug smile as she set her own bag carefully on the breakfast bar and stood the suitcase up next to the counter, pushing its handle down as she did so.

He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right, so he merely grumbled as he walked back towards the door. "No, but it would have been easier if we could have used plastic bags instead of the more environmentally friendly paper version." Her smile widened at the petulant response, blossoming into a full-blown grin when he spoke again. "Now, I'm going to get the rest if you're finished saying 'I told you so.'"

She shook her head as she turned to follow. But, when she got to the door, Grissom stopped suddenly and turned to face her. "There are only a couple of bags left, and I'm pretty sure I can get those in one trip by myself." He flashed her a quick grin before pointing to the door. "Lock this behind me. I'll let myself back in," he said, pulling his keys out of the lock.

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it when his face darkened. "Sara..." he began with a heavy sigh. He had no desire to argue, but her safety seemed improved with her locked inside the townhouse rather than outside with him.

"OK," she said, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. She'd do anything to keep playful Grissom around, even if it meant making some concessions. The surly version she'd been subjected to lately wasn't nearly as much fun. "I'll just put away the groceries."

He looked conflicted at that, but she didn't give him the opportunity to argue. "No, Grissom," she spoke with a commanding air. "It's really nice of you to let me stay at your house, and I appreciate the fact that you're a gracious host, but you're not going to wait on me hand and foot. You even bought the food today, for crying out loud! Which, by the way, will _not_ happen again." She punctuated her last words by pointing a finger at him dramatically.

Seeing his raised eyebrow, she shrugged and said, "Don't think of me as your houseguest. Think of me as your... uh..." Her voice trailed off. How did she get herself into this? The appropriate word for the situation was, ironically, completely inappropriate. She could only imagine how he'd react to the word...

"Roommate?" he supplied with a mischievous grin. Her eyes shot to his, and she could only stare at him in wide-eyed astonishment. This was certainly not the reaction she'd envisioned, but it made her glad that playful Grissom had stuck around.

She decided to play along. "Just don't expect me to feed your bugs, buster."

His lips dropped into a mock frown. "What good is a roommate if they don't do their share of the chores?"

"I'll do my share, but I draw the line at contributing to the betterment of the insect kingdom. That's your job, and I certainly wouldn't want to take it away from you."

He smirked at her syrupy sweet smile. "Fine, you can start putting away groceries. Just don't mess up my kitchen."

She bit back a sarcastic response to that – something along the lines of how his kitchen was already messy before she ever set foot in it – and opted for a mere nod of agreement instead. He turned and stepped outside, looking back at her sternly over his shoulder with one uplifted eyebrow. "Lock the door, Sara."

"OK, OK, give me a chance," she said with a grin. "It was hard to do with this big entomologist standing in the way."

He turned around to respond, only to find himself face-to-face with the front door as she chose that very moment to comply with his request. He leaned his forehead against the wooden surface, shaking his head with a chuckle when he heard the lock click into place before he turned to make his way down the stairs.

He picked up the two remaining grocery bags from the interior of the Denali before grabbing the plastic bags from the produce stand, wrapping the two of them carefully around each hand. Reaching into his pocket for his keys, he ensured that they were in his hand before he shoved the truck's door closed.

Opening the townhouse's door was easier this time with the slightly less unwieldy burden. Closing the door with his foot, he made his way to the kitchen, setting the bags down on the counter and pocketing his keys. He then reached into the closest bag before an irritated voice halted his efforts.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" Sara stopped pulling groceries out of her own bag to place her hands on her hips and glare at him.

For a moment, Grissom was cowed at her anger. That is, until he remembered he was in his own house. "What?" He cocked his head in slight confusion, his own voice tinged with annoyance and the slightest hint of condescension. "Um, I'm putting away groceries."

"Did we not _just_ have a conversation on this very subject?" Exasperation permeated her tone. "Not five minutes ago? Right over there?" She pointed in the direction of the door. "Any of this sound familiar?"

"Sara-"

She cut him off. "Don't 'Sara' me. Put down the groceries and step away and nobody gets hurt." She smiled as she spoke, but her tone was serious. "I'm doing this, Grissom. Go in the other room and... I don't know... feed your bugs or something."

"They don't need to be fed. But this ice cream _does _need to be put in the freezer," he responded with a slow smile of his own, holding up the frozen dessert.

"I know. And that's exactly where it's going," she said, taking the container from his hand. "You, go, watch television or something," she commanded, pointing into the living room.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she put her free hand on his back and shoved him lightly toward the indicated space. "Go, Grissom. I've got this."

He took only a small step before stopping to look at her, the indecision flickering across his face, and her irritation returned full-force. "Geez, Grissom, I can't possibly learn that much about you just by putting away the groceries, so I really don't see the need for this level of concern." She regretted the bitter words as soon as they left her mouth, and the flash of hurt she saw on his face didn't help matters any. She turned away, suddenly tired of the entire situation.

Reluctantly, he nodded slowly and backed away from the counter. As he moved, he felt the edge of her suitcase brush against his leg. He glanced up to see her putting the ice cream into the freezer and, figuring she wouldn't mind, he picked up her luggage. He needed to make up the guest room anyway.

Once he left, Sara breathed a sigh that was a mixture of relief and sorrow. _Why couldn't he just let me do this?_ She shook her head in anger, pulling food out of bags without any pretense of gentleness. _I am such a jerk. He was just being a good host, and I have to say something mean-spirited like that. When exactly did I become this bitter, angry woman?_ But, on some level, she had meant every word and she could pinpoint the exact moment she had become that woman. It had happened when he had turned down her offer of dinner so flatly, and the sting of the rejection – delivered without any pretext of softening the blow – was still fresh in her mind even after all this time. She supposed it always would be, and she hated the undeniable fact that she couldn't seem to let go and move on.

Forcing away the unwanted thoughts, she fell back on her coping mechanism: burying herself in work. She busied herself with putting away their purchases, enjoying the menial task that prevented her thoughts from running amok. Categorizing the groceries quickly into groups of refrigerated, frozen, nonperishable, and bathroom/cleaning supplies, she then opened the refrigerator. She spent a few moments organizing its mostly cluttered contents, surveying her handiwork and feeling a slight rush of pride when she finished.

Turning back to the remainder of their provisions, she realized she had no idea where anything belonged. After sweeping the bathroom supplies – all hers save the toothbrush bought to replace the one she was using – into one of the bags and dropping it into one of the chairs at the breakfast bar, she spent the next several minutes familiarizing herself with his kitchen. And, despite her best efforts to the contrary, she found herself relishing the small discoveries that revealed a little bit of Grissom to her. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of a full set of china carefully tucked away on the top shelf of a cabinet that also held everyday dishes. She suppressed a knowing smile at the sight of generic brands of nearly everything except Kraft macaroni and cheese. And she caught her breath at the sight of a vegetarian cookbook lying in a drawer next to the refrigerator.

She pondered the cookbook's significance for a moment, curious as to why he had it at all. From the contents of his refrigerator, it was obvious he did not partake of those particular food preferences. Wondering if he had some vegetarian relative that he cooked for from time to time, she picked up the book, feeling only a slight twinge of guilt at her nosiness as she flipped a few pages. But it only took a cursory look at the volume to discover it was not exactly well-read and more than likely had never been opened at all, leaving her to speculate on whether he owned the book for her benefit. And, though she cursed herself for even having that thought, it was nevertheless there.

She pursed her lips as she dropped the cookbook back into its drawer, sliding it shut quietly before turning back to the task at hand. Absorbing herself in her work once again, she forced away the unwelcome thoughts, grateful for the distraction of manual labor.

Grissom returned just as she started on the last handful of foodstuffs, clearing his throat to announce his presence. "Am I allowed back into my own kitchen now?" His tone was neutral, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, trying to judge his mood so that she could adjust her response accordingly. But his face was impassive, and she weighed her options.

"Not yet," she replied, trying to keep her tone light and teasing.

"I'm hungry, Sara," he whined. "You can't keep me out of here forever."

"Not trying to," she laughed. "Just a little bit longer, and your hunger will be satisfied, I promise. Now go." She pointed to the living room with a look that told him she meant business.

Grumbling in mild aggravation, he turned on his heel and walked into the living room, dropping onto the couch as he picked up the remote control. He flipped idly through channels, not really expecting to find anything outside the realm of talk show or soap opera on morning television. But he was pleasantly surprised when a black-and-white film caught his eye, and his thumb paused on the remote. It only took him a second to recognize the movie and, when he did, he dropped the clicker on the couch next to him and settled back in contentment, quickly becoming engrossed in the story on the screen.

So absorbed was he that he didn't notice the mingling scents of coffee and cinnamon raisin bagels wafting into the room until Sara thrust a plate and mug into his face. Startled, he looked up to see her smile as she said, "I thought you were hungry."

"I am," he agreed, taking the proffered items. "But I didn't expect you to feed me. Thank you." She shrugged it off, and he settled the plate into his lap as he watched her walk back toward the kitchen to get her own breakfast. Raising the steaming mug to his lips, he sipped it cautiously, not wanting to burn his tongue.

He returned his eyes to the screen, looking up when Sara came back into the room with a plate and mug in each hand and a case file tucked carefully under her right arm. His eyes narrowed at the sight, and she caught his concerned look but glanced away quickly, not in the mood for yet another lecture on finding a distraction.

Eyes sweeping the room in indecision, she paused momentarily at the entrance to the living room. Grissom's large frame occupied half of the relatively small couch, and the recliner didn't afford a great view of the television. What the chair _did_ have to offer was a safe proximity from Grissom and the frightening effects he always seemed to have on her treacherous body. Decision made. But, before she could take a step toward the recliner, he called her name. Seemingly sensing her hesitation, he patted the cushion next to him and moved over slightly onto one side of the sofa. "Come sit here."

She tensed slightly but did as he asked, perching towards the front of the couch and setting the case file across her lap as a sort of makeshift table. After blowing on the mug, she took a small sip of the steaming liquid before placing it on the coffee table.

Grissom watched her with faint amusement. "You can sit back, you know. I won't bite."

She glared at him, irritated that he had picked up on her discomfort. "I'm fine." Wanting to shift the focus away from herself, she gestured toward the television with her head. "What are we watching?"

He dragged his eyes back toward the film as he responded, "_City Lights_. One of my favorite movies."

"_City Lights_? Charlie Chaplin?"

The excitement in her voice was unmistakable, and he looked at her with interest. "Yeah. You like Chaplin?"

"Yes!" she answered quickly. "Well, maybe," she amended, her face reddening. "I've never actually seen one of his movies. Just heard about them all my life."

Seeing his growing curiosity caused her to flush even more, and she returned her attention to the screen as she explained. "My grandmother used to tell us these great stories about how she and her friends would go watch Charlie Chaplin movies when they were teenagers. Four girls in the... what... late '20s, early '30s?" At his nod, she continued, "Yeah, well, movies were evidently the thing to do back then. They'd go every Saturday. It's where she met my grandfather. At _City Lights_, as a matter of fact." The last part came out in a rush, and she bit her lip, hoping he wouldn't take it as some sort of hint. She hadn't really meant to tell him that story at all but, as she'd told him before, she seemed to forever be overtalking around him.

He turned back to the screen in silence, soaking in the information and reveling in the fact that she had trusted him with such a personal treasure. His voice was shy as he told her, "Well, I can certainly see how your grandparents would enjoy this one. It's pretty romantic."

She could only stare at the screen in shocked silence for a moment but soon recovered her voice. "_Real_-ly?" Her tone was teasing. "I never knew you were a closet romantic, Grissom."

Eyes still glued to the television set, he shot back, "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Sara."

Her mouth fell open at his lack of denial, and an unbidden image of a kneeling Grissom proposing to her swept across her mind. _Don't I wish?_ She quickly shook her head to clear the thoughts, and he smiled slightly, catching the movement in his peripheral vision. Picking up her bagel and raising it to her lips, she leaned back on the couch and questioned, "So what have I missed?"

"Not much," he replied, draining the last of his coffee before kicking off his shoes and settling back next to her as he put his feet up on the coffee table. Gesturing toward the screen, he said, "It's only about 10 minutes into it, so I think you'll be able to pick up on it easier if you just watch from here rather than me telling you what you missed."

She nodded, quickly becoming absorbed in the story. She chewed her bagel absently, moving her plate to the table when she finished and draining the last of her coffee. Mimicking her companion's position, she propped her legs up on the table and relaxed back against the cushions. The position was much more comfortable and, for a moment, she was thoroughly enjoying herself, completely engrossed in the monochromatic saga of the tramp and the blind girl he loved. She didn't even notice when her eyes closed as fatigue overtook her.

Grissom was riveted to the screen, a faint smile crossing his face as he watched the film's famous boxing match. He had nearly forgotten he had company until he felt a slight weight pressing against his left arm. Glancing in that direction, he saw Sara's head leaning against him, her face relaxed and angelic in slumber. He smiled, barely suppressing the urge to press a kiss against the top of her head. "I thought you never slept," he whispered, lips hovering just above her head.

"Hmmm?" she breathed, her voice groggy and only half-awake as she shifted to find a more comfortable position.

"Shhh," he whispered, suddenly desperate for her to stay near him and knowing she wouldn't if she awoke. On impulse, he moved his hand over hers, softly linking their fingers. "Go back to sleep."

He smiled when her body relaxed and her breathing returned to the deep, rhythmic sound that indicated sleep, and he watched her for a few minutes more before returning his attention to the television. The moment seemed fantastically surreal to him, something he'd dreamed of a thousand times – holding hands with the woman he loved while she slept next to him. And when the characters on the screen mimicked the action, he reached for the remote control and switched off the TV.

He sat silently for a long time, relishing the sensations of the moment – her warm fingers entwined in his, the smell of her hair when he turned his head slightly in her direction, the sound of her breathing intermingling with his own. But, too soon, the reality of their situation invaded his mind. There was a very real killer out there, one who seemed intent on getting to Sara. _What did that note say? "I have special plans for you in the future"? What does that mean?_

He breathed out a heavy sigh as he turned the words of the note over in his head, not even the slightest bit surprised when his rage returned with a vengeance. _"...agent... enjoyed working with you... special cases... bloodhound... special plans" Who is Kim?_ He had no answers, and it was frustrating beyond belief. It had only been two days, but he felt as if they were further from the killer with each passing minute. _Whoever he is, he'd better hope I never meet him._

Trying to calm his stormy emotions, he reached for the case file in Sara's lap, gently pulling it into his own. Picking up his glasses from the end table next to him, he opened the file and began to read about Allison Shea and the circumstances surrounding her untimely demise. Giving little more than a cursory glance to the cover sheet, he saw that N. Stokes and W. Brown were the CSIs assigned to the case. The police report described the state of Shea's apartment – no sign of forced entry, victim found in her bedroom next to the bed, hands bound with fishing net in a figure-eight pattern. Flipping to the crime scene photos, he studied a close-up of the victim's bound wrists, mentally comparing it to the digital photographs of Marilyn Ellis he'd viewed earlier. The similarities were striking.

Reaching onto the end table absently, he found the notepad and pen he always kept nearby and brought it into his lap. With his free hand, he quietly flipped the pad open to a clean sheet and wrote the victims' names across the top of the sheet. On the left side of the page, he wrote "Age" and then neatly printed 28 under Allison Shea's name and 48 under Marilyn Ellis'. The word "Bindings" started the next row, followed by "fishing net" and "nylons" under the victims' names. He continued in that studious manner for nearly two hours, softly turning the pages of the file and copying down various details about the Shea murder alongside what he could remember of the Ellis case.

Delving further into the Shea file, he discovered that she'd had a live-in boyfriend who had been ruled out as a suspect in the case. At the time of his girlfriend's death, Jeremy Rankin had been at his office working steadily on a case with three other associates at the law firm of Foreman, Thomas, and DeLoach. He was the one who had discovered Ally's body when he arrived home sometime around midnight that evening.

Dr. Robbins had placed the time of death at about 10:00 pm. He ultimately determined that Shea died as a result of sodium chloride poisoning. Grissom shook his head. The similarities in the two cases were uncanny. This had to be the same killer. But there was still something that was bothering him.

He took off his glasses and leaned his head back against the couch, careful not to disturb his sleeping companion. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he sighed. _What am I missing? Serial killer. Two murders, two years apart. What do they have in common?_

He continued to mull over the problem in his head, and there were moments when he felt as if he almost had the elusive piece. He could nearly reach out and grab it, but then it would move just beyond his grasp and disappear. After the second time that happened, he clenched his jaw tightly, the frustration making its presence felt in the strong facial muscles.

And, suddenly, as if sensing his mood shift, Sara repositioned herself against him, turning more in his direction and drawing her legs up underneath her body. Her right hand remained cradled in his left, but she wrapped her left arm around his midsection, the fingers lightly touching the starched fabric of his white shirt under his right arm. And he could not breathe.

All ideas on the case were crowded from his mind as his brain was suddenly filled only with thoughts of Sara. He closed his eyes, cherishing the feeling of being held by her and treasuring every second he sat there with her. And though he knew he shouldn't allow this to continue, he couldn't seem to make himself move.

But suddenly, the elusive thought was there. Right at the forefront of his mind where all he had to do was reach up and pick it like some overly ripe grape. _There's got to be another case. A case that Sara worked. The perp said he'd "worked" with her before the Ellis murder, but Nick and Warrick were assigned to the Shea case, and that's the only other one we know about._

His mind raced with the implications of the thought. Sara always remembered the unsolved cases. They ate at her, and he had learned firsthand about her violent nightmares. Maybe this time they could use that to their advantage. She should remember this case. He looked down at her, and his breath caught in his throat. He always found her beautiful, but there were still times when he was surprised at just how much it affected him. Removing his hand from hers carefully, he gently touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers, calling her name softly as he did so.

"Mmm-hmm," she acknowledged without opening her eyes.

"Why don't you go to bed?" His voice was smiling.

Her brow crinkled slightly as her sleep-addled brain puzzled over his question. After a short hesitation, she responded quietly with her eyes still closed, "Because you're in my bed."

It was his turn to be confused. "What? I'm not in your bed."

"Uh-huh," she replied, and he smiled at the childlike tenor of her response.

He resisted the juvenile urge to reply, "Nuh-uh," opting instead for, "Open your eyes, Sara."

Grissom had injected just the right amount of authority into his voice, and she reluctantly obeyed. Blinking in the dim lighting, her eyes widened in mortification when she realized her position. This made the second consecutive day she'd awoken with her arms wrapped around her boss. It was a wonder she still had a job.

Withdrawing her arm and moving away from him quickly, she could only stare at him in horror. And, though he missed the loss of her touch immediately, he couldn't help but chuckle at her expression. She began to stammer, "God, Grissom... I-I-I ... am... _so_ sorry..."

He cut off her apology with a wave of his hand. "It's OK, Sara. But you'd be more comfortable in a bed, don't you think?"

She tilted her head at him in befuddlement. She had assumed she'd be sleeping on the couch. Though her brain was still somewhat groggy, she distinctly remembered sleeping in his bed last night, and there was no way she was taking his bedroom from him. The couch was fine. "Grissom, I'm not taking your bedroom."

"Huh?" It was his turn to be puzzled. Narrowing his eyes at her, he spoke slowly, "You're right. No, you're not."

When she only appeared more bewildered, he amended the blunt statement. "Well, you could have it if you really wanted it, I suppose. But I was thinking you'd take the guest room."

She blinked at him. _He has a guest room? Why didn't he take me there yesterday?_

Suddenly, he realized the source of the confusion and laughed quietly. Standing, he took her hand and pulled her up with him, not letting go when he turned to lead the way down the hall. "You want to know why I didn't put you in the guest bedroom yesterday, don't you?"

She answered with a quick nod, but Grissom didn't have to turn to see it. Pausing at the door, he pushed it open and released her hand, gesturing for her to go inside. "It wasn't a good time for you to meet Nathan," he answered cryptically.

Sara was definitely feeling sluggish, and she had already walked a few steps into the room, intent on just falling onto the bed and allowing sleep to overtake her. But that response was intriguing enough to stop her in her tracks. She turned partway to face him, raising one eyebrow in silent question.

He grinned at her response. "You'll meet him later. Get some sleep, Sara."

And, with that, he shut the door quietly, still smiling at her expression. "Pleasant dreams, sweetheart," he whispered to the air before shuffling off in search of his own bed.

**TBC...**


	13. Waiting for Good Things

**A/N: **I cannot say how much I appreciate all of your kind reviews. I am truly overwhelmed!

And, geez, I need to apologize six ways to Sunday for how long it's been since I've updated. I hope I still have readers after two weeks! :-)

In response to La Kitt: Hang in there! We're getting there slowly but surely, I promise. (I won't commit to bedroom scenes, though – I like to leave those to the imagination! :-)). Think of it this way: In music, the longer a dissonant chord is sustained, the more satisfying its resolution. But providing resolution too early would be inconsistent with the build-up and, in this case, out of character for both Grissom and Sara. Perhaps I've been remiss in making this story entirely too detailed, but I can't change it now without being completely incompatible with the rest of it.

**Spoilers: **"XX", "Crate and Burial," "Sex, Lies, and Larvae," "Primum Non Nocere," "Scuba Doobie Doo," "The Hunger Artist," "Bloodlines"

**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned Grissom, I wish I owned Grissom, I wish I owned Griss... oh, ahem... yeah... sorry... um, I don't own _CSI:_. Heh. :-)

Chapter 13: Waiting for Good Things

Sara awoke refreshed in the middle of the afternoon. Stretching lazily as she glanced at her watch, she sat up with a yawn. She still wore her clothes from the previous night's shift but, amazingly, she didn't feel grimy and wrinkled, although she was fairly certain she looked it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror set atop the adjacent chest of drawers and was somewhat surprised to see that, though her hair stuck both away from and to her head in random fashion, the conspicuous absence of the gaunt cheeks and dark circles under her eyes that had recently been her constant companion did wonders for her appearance.

She swiveled her head slowly around, soaking in the atmosphere of Grissom's guest room. She'd been so exhausted earlier that she had barely made it onto the bed before she collapsed and was immediately and soundly asleep. She hadn't even bothered to turn down the covers but had merely draped herself across the bed fully clothed, burying her face in the pillow as she fell headlong into somnolence.

Now she studied the spartan surroundings with an investigator's eye. The room was utilitarian at best, and it reminded her a little too much of the visit she and Nick had recently made to a women's prison outside Vegas. The bed, the chest, and the night table next to her were the only furnishings, and the walls were an austere white. Other than the brown oak of the bureau and the golden sheen of the brass bed, the only significant color in the room was supplied by the shiny black plastic and glowing red numbers of the digital clock radio on the night table. The pastel yellow in the bedspread made a valiant effort to add a springtime flair, but it was all for naught against the stark whiteness of the walls and ceiling. She wondered if Grissom had ever had a guest, and the fact that the thought had even crossed her mind made her sad for him.

As her mind wandered to her housemate, her thoughts flew back to their last conversation. 'It wasn't a good time for you to meet Nathan,' he had said. _Who the heck is Nathan?_ Her brow crinkled as she turned and dropped her feet onto the floor. Settling her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, she pondered the question, her curiosity thoroughly piqued. _It's got to be a pet. Some insect, maybe?_ She smiled and rolled her eyes as she pushed herself off the bed. _Probably a spider..._ But Nathan wasn't exactly a normal name for a pet. Admittedly, Grissom was far from "normal" – it was one of the things she loved about him – but naming a pet Nathan even seemed odd for him. She shook her head. Despite her curiosity, she would have to wait. _Patience, Sara. Good things come to those who wait. Yeah, except for what I really want. How long do I have to wait for that?_ she thought bitterly.

Forcing away her frustration, she looked across the room, noticing that he had left her suitcase by the door. And, despite her aggravation with Grissom at the moment, his thoughtfulness brought a smile to her face as she walked over to retrieve it. She heaved the weighty black luggage onto the bed and quickly unzipped it. Flicking her eyes toward the bureau, she debated unpacking her things into it but almost immediately dismissed the thought. _Just a little too presumptuous._

Plucking her bedtime attire – a faded Harvard T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts sporting various physics equations – from a pocket of the suitcase, she headed for the chest. Arranging all of her clothes into it was obviously out of the question, but she at least wanted to have easy access to her version of pajamas. Having to rummage through her bag when she was ready for bed was not an appealing thought. Before she could second-guess herself, she opened the top drawer and, after ensuring it was empty, dropped the shorts and shirt inside.

After grabbing an appropriate work outfit and the black bag which had been nestled amid a bed of underwear and cotton shirts, she rezipped the suitcase and towed it carelessly over to the closet. Pushing the sliding door slightly open, she shoved the suitcase inside and closed the door without a second glance.

As she looked back towards the bed, she debated what to do next, and the sight of the small toiletry bag evoked a blissful sigh. Shampoo, conditioner, hair dryer, Juniper Breeze body lotion. Sara had never been overly concerned with femininity. She'd spent much of her childhood playing baseball with her brother and his friends, and her adolescence had been filled with track meets and tennis matches, where she'd spent much of her time competing against boys. She'd even pursued a career in what was largely a male field – and had excelled at it. But, much as she loathed shopping, she was reduced to a pigtailed ballerina whenever she walked into a Bath and Body Works. She had always been a sucker for fragrant bubble baths and fruity body lotions. Even at fifteen bucks a pop, Juniper Breeze was _so_ worth it. She just wished she could wear it more often.

Her mind drifted to a nearly forgotten conversation she'd had with Grissom not long after she moved to Vegas. She'd asked him, jokingly, if he'd just slapped on bad cologne, and he had responded, seriously, that he never wore it because it interfered with the job. Until that moment – a lifetime ago – she'd never pondered the importance of something as minor as cologne. But, like so many of her other talks with him, she'd memorized that one and taken it to heart. She had not worn anything beyond deodorant to work since.

_Well, what better opportunity do I have than right now? I can't go out in the field. What evidence will I disturb?_ And, with a triumphant smile on her face, she snatched up her clothes and the small bag and headed for the bathroom across the hall. She couldn't believe that she was actually feeling glad that she was confined to the lab.

She opened the door quietly and threw a cautious glance down the hall toward Grissom's bedroom. Seeing his door was shut, she breathed a small sigh of relief and tiptoed silently into the bathroom. Once inside the tiny lavatory, she dropped her items next to the sink before turning towards the bathtub. She cringed when she first turned on the water, initially concerned that it might wake Grissom, but she quickly decided that the sound of something as rhythmic as running water would only lull him back into further slumber. Reaching for the black bag, she pulled out a small bottle of bubble bath and poured a small amount of the potent liquid into the water, watching in fascination as the suds under the faucet piled on top of each other like great fluffy clouds.

She started suddenly as she realized she hadn't brought a towel with her and swept her eyes around the room as she mentally contemplated the problem. _Great, now what? Drip dry? _But, just as that thought entered her mind, her gaze landed on familiar handwriting adorning a sticky note plastered to the mirror. Pushing herself away from her perch on the side of the tub, she read the contents with a smile. "Left towels and your toothbrush underneath the sink... G." _That was nice of him._ Pulling the note off the mirror, she almost missed the P.S. on the back. It simply said, "roomie," and was accompanied by a smiley face. She snickered, wondering for a moment whether the word or the drawing was more out of character for him, ultimately coming to the conclusion that she didn't much care.

She laid the note down carefully next to the sink, not quite sure why she wanted to keep it but equally unwilling to discard the tiny token. Peeling off her clothes, she stepped into the tub and lowered herself unhurriedly into the luxurious lather. With a sigh, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation of the satiny bubbles caressing her skin and feeling the tension slip away from her body with the ripple of each tiny wave.

The bathtub had always been Sara's sanctuary. From her adolescence, she had taken bubble baths to escape from reality, from pain, even from herself. Any thought, any dream, any fantasy, no matter how comical or unlikely, could be explored with gravity and without ramification in the confines of water-filled porcelain. For it was understood that, as the suds swirled their way down the drain, they took with them the thoughts and their attached emotions.

When the thoughts came, their content did not surprise her. Over the last several years, a predominance of her bathtime ponderings involved Grissom. Sometimes there were memories of draping a blanket across his broad shoulders while he conducted an experiment designed to prove her theory. Sometimes she could hear him saying that he had never noticed beauty until he met her, a statement she was sure was designed to leave her speechless. Sometimes she concocted elaborate schemes designed to convince him to take a chance on her, on them. Today, she merely soaked in the remembrances of the last couple of days – his gentleness in holding her while she cried, the fear in his eyes when she wandered away unaccompanied, his playful flirtations that she had so sorely missed. She sighed at the memory of her hand on his chest, his smile as he'd walked out the door to retrieve groceries earlier in the day, his shy admission of the romantic nature of a favorite film. Every new revelation made her love him even more, and she knew in that instant that she would never leave his house with her heart intact.

XXXXXXXXX

She stepped out into the hallway cautiously, fully clothed but still feeling exposed with her bare feet and with a towel turbaned around her wet hair. Crossing quickly into the guest room, she slid the closet door open just enough to drop her dirty clothes and wet towel on top of her suitcase before pulling it closed again. Brushing out the wet strands hurriedly, she decided against using the hair dryer, fearing its noise would awaken her sleeping supervisor.

She glanced around the sparsely furnished room, unsure what to do with herself until he awoke. Some part of her wanted to explore his home, but another part, the part that wanted more, held her back. _It would be a violation of his privacy_, she reasoned. But, deep down, she knew the real truth was that she wanted him to share himself with her, to be actively involved in giving himself. Sure, she could take what she wanted – learn more of the little things that made him who he was – but it wouldn't give her what she truly needed.

Her stomach rumbled heavily, reminding her that the effects of the bagel she'd eaten several hours earlier had long since worn off. She trudged into the kitchen, glad for the distraction from the temptation of snooping. As she reached for the refrigerator door, her gaze landed on the tomatoes lined up on his counter like squishy soldiers ready to march against an army of leafy green vegetables. And she suddenly had a craving.

Opening the refrigerator with renewed vigor, she rummaged for onions and peppers before moving on to the pantry in her quest for other desirable ingredients. One by one, she collected the things she needed, accumulating a small pile in the span of just a few minutes. Sara didn't cook much anymore, but that was not to say she couldn't. Much knowledge is borne of necessity, and life in a family-owned bed-and-breakfast often necessitated all hands on deck when it came to meal preparation.

Despite her feminist views at work, and though she would never willingly admit it, Sara had always enjoyed domestic chores, and especially cooking. When she donned an apron, she was no longer a scientist. She became an artist, and her creative juices unerringly yielded exquisite results. But there was no joy in cooking for one. As a result, the extent of her cooking these days was limited to tossing prepackaged food into the microwave or calling for take-out. But today she had incentive. Today she had someone to cook for, and she found herself smiling in anticipation of the look on Grissom's face when he saw what she had prepared.

Taking a quick inventory of her ingredients, she decided that only wine was missing. She needed a smooth white wine and hadn't thought to buy one when they were at the store earlier. She could only hope Grissom had one; the sauce would certainly not be the same without it. She glanced around the room, knowing she had seen wine in her earlier tour of the kitchen cabinets. Opening a door underneath the breakfast bar, she was rewarded with three bottles – two unopened containers of a burgundy Chablis and a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, the latter of which she greedily grabbed.

She worked diligently for the next twenty minutes before finally putting the entire mixture over low heat to simmer. Taking a step back from the stove, she leaned against the counter, smiling in satisfaction as the aroma of stewing tomatoes wafted past her nose. Moving forward, she stirred the concoction once more before setting the lid firmly in place.

_Now what?_ The sauce needed to simmer for at least two hours, and she had no idea when Grissom would awaken. She had never dealt well with boredom and, more often than not, simply went in to work as a way to combat inactivity. While it might not have been the healthiest coping mechanism, it nevertheless kept her from insanity and, thus, was useful. But work wasn't an option for her while she was imprisoned at Grissom's.

Or maybe it was. Her eyes lit up when she looked into the living room and saw the Shea case file lying on the end table. _How glad am I that I brought that home? Wait – home? Oh, I am getting a little **too** comfortable here._ But she couldn't help but smile as she sank down onto the couch and moved Grissom's reading glasses aside to pick up the thick folder. She really did feel at home here, like she belonged, and she hadn't felt that way in a long time. Maybe never.

Focusing on the task at hand, she opened the file to the cover page, reacquainting herself with evidence she'd scrutinized a mere 48 hours earlier. Allison Shea, age 28, date of death August 28, 2002. Next of kin was listed as her mother Miranda, but Allison had lived with her boyfriend Jeremy Rankin. The contact numbers for each were listed, and Sara reached for the pen and pad she'd seen lying on the end table. She absently glanced at the pad, doing a double-take when she noticed the familiar scrawl covering the page. She studied Grissom's notes, absorbing the similarities and differences between the cases and admiring the diligence of the man who had condensed them onto paper. There were blank spaces on Marilyn Ellis' side of the row, and she knew he must have written only what he could remember from her case. But his notes were thorough, incorporating huge components of the case, such as cause of death, alongside the smallest of details, such as whether or not the victims wore fingernail polish. _Did he do all of this while I was asleep? Exactly how long was I out?_

She smiled as she realized she wouldn't have expected anything less. Gil Grissom was easily the most brilliant person she'd ever met. Always had been. He had a keen eye for detail and an uncanny knack for discovering evidence where others could find none. And he didn't give up easily. All of which combined to make him the best investigator she'd ever worked with – hands down.

She returned her attention to the file itself, keeping Grissom's notepad nearby for reference when she saw something of interest. For the most part, he had written down everything she found, but she did make one addition to the final page of his notes. Neatly printing marital status on the left-hand side of the page, she filled in the appropriate spaces under each victim. _Serial killers usually look for the same kind of victim. So he got one married woman and one that was cohabitating. Fits the profile._

The thought of Shea's cohabitation reminded her that she had not yet copied the phone numbers of the individuals listed on the file's cover page, and she grabbed Grissom's pen once more. She scrawled the numbers hastily on the back page of the pad before tearing off the relevant portion of the sheet and studying it. _Which one of these people should we see fir-?_

The thought was left unfinished as Grissom trudged into the living room, looking tousled and sleepy... and utterly adorable. His curls were in a mild state of disarray, and he wore his robe cinched low over a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He scrubbed a hand across his beard as he headed for the kitchen, stopping short when he noticed Sara on the couch. His voice was gruff from lack of use when he spoke. "Hey."

She smirked at his bewildered expression, remembering that he had looked much the same when Brass first brought her here. "Hey yourself. Did you sleep well?"

He nodded. "Just not long enough." As he spoke, he swiped a hand across his eye, the gesture as guileless as a small boy's. Sara couldn't help but laugh, and he cocked his head to the side. "What's so funny?"

Biting back a giggle at his perplexed look, she shook her head. "You just look so childlike when you wake up." When his expression changed to mild irritation, she amended, "I don't mean that in a bad way. You look... I don't know... innocent. It's very sweet." Lowering her eyes, she added, "Just not what I expected, I guess."

He smiled, secretly pleased at her admission though he wasn't completely sure why. Deciding that changing the subject was the better part of valor, he sniffed hungrily as he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the scent. "I'm not used to such savory smells coming from my kitchen. What _is _that?"

She lifted her eyes and smiled widely as she responded, "_That_ is my tomato sauce. I thought we could have pasta primavera for dinner, but the sauce has to cook for a couple of hours first. Is that OK with you?"

"Are you kidding? Argue with something that smells that great?" He shot her a lopsided grin. "Besides, I've been told that good things come to those who wait. I'm willing to test the theory."

She met his gaze sharply and held it, catching the tiniest flash of something in his eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that she wondered if she might have imagined it. She looked away first as she pushed herself off the couch, remembering her own earlier thoughts and unwilling to allow her emotions to get the best of her. Heading for the kitchen, she began the menial task of coffee preparation, glad to have something to occupy her hands.

He watched her for a moment as she worked, her fingers just as precise in their movements with the coffee filter as they were with evidence. There was something familiar about the moment, something significant, but his mind was too slowed by residual sleep to process it. He shook his head slightly to clear the cobwebbed thoughts, shuffling away from the counter and down the hall. "I'm going to take a shower," he tossed over his shoulder.

He had just passed the guest bath when a delicate scent wafted past, making him pause momentarily in his trek towards his own bathroom. It only took him a second to recognize it and, when he did, he smiled. _Sara._

XXXXXXXXX

The shower was Grissom's haven from reality. He had mulled over countless cases, solved a thousand puzzles, pieced together numerous mysteries under the cascading stream. He would not – could not – bring himself to show his emotions around others, but he had banged out his anger, cursed out his frustration, cried out his pain within its tiled enclosure.

But today was different. Today wasn't about showing emotion; it was about figuring it out. He stood calmly under the steaming spray, arms braced against the wall, eyes closed against the blinding stream. He allowed the water to rinse the last of the sleep cobwebs from his brain and, slowly, he felt the tension seep from his body.

The water cascaded through his hair, creating giant rivulets through his beard on its gravity-guided journey toward the drain. He felt it drip from his face in great droplets, and he was sure he would be able to hear them hit the porcelain floor above the roar of the shower if he but watched them fall. The sensation of the flow through his beard was gentle, tender, like a lover's caress.

His eyes snapped open, and he pressed his arms more firmly against the wall. Gingerly, he raised his hand to his cheek, remembering how Sara's hand had felt there yesterday. Feather light and soft but also, somehow, strong and reassuring. His memory drifted back to a time two years earlier when she had done the same thing while he was in the midst of a tirade about a suspect and a body they could not find. He could still recall with startling clarity how it had felt when she trailed her hand across his unshaven face. She had claimed she was brushing away chalk at the time, but he had never been quite sure. Regardless, the action had accomplished its purpose – it took his mind off of his unproductive ramblings and calmed him significantly.

Mentally comparing the two scenarios, he rubbed his hand over his beard roughly before leaning both arms against the wall again. There was no comparison. The earlier incident had been far more satisfying and, for the first time, he seriously considered shaving. He scoffed aloud at the idea that Sara might touch him again and that he wanted to be able to feel it. But, before he could berate himself for its absurdity, his brain was suddenly accosted by a mental image.

Well, many images. His mind was suddenly awash with snippets of memories, multiple snapshots of various times in his life, but all involving one prevailing figure – Sara. Smiling up at him from her seat in his forensics seminar, wrapping a blanket around him as he performed an experiment on a decomposing pig, standing next to him staring up at a billboard of a supermodel, wounded and bleeding on the curb after the lab explosion, holding his hand limply when he picked her up from the police station after her near-arrest, crying in his arms from fear, speaking broken Spanish with a huge grin, standing in his kitchen with her hands on her hips, sleeping with her arms around him, making his coffee just the way he liked it.

He was suddenly glad his arms were still braced against the wall of the shower because his knees nearly buckled from the sheer weight of the epiphany. She belonged here. In his kitchen, in his house, in his life. With her here, he was finally at home. And, at long last, he understood that, despite his fears, despite his reservations, despite everything that held him back, he could never let her go again.

**TBC...**


	14. Experimentation

**A/N:** Gotta give a shout out to AvonChickie, who was kind enough to inform me that I was neglecting the rest of the characters in favor of Grissom and Sara. At first, I went into some sort of crazed tirade whereby I exclaimed that that is just the way things are on my _CSI:_ planet (something along the lines of, "What other characters?!? This is _CSI: Grissom and Sara_, darn it!"), but I eventually became rational enough to examine the situation and ultimately came to the reluctant conclusion that her assessment was correct. :-) So I'm slowly trying to rectify that situation. Well, very slowly. But, hey, at least I've added one additional character. :-) And more will be back in the next chapter, I promise.

This chapter is also about half-again as long as my others, so I hope that will be apology enough for the delay in updating. :-)

**Spoilers: **"Butterflied," "Ellie," "Inside the Box," "Evaluation Day"

**Disclaimer: **Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting Gil Gwissom. :-) Of course, if he (or any of the rest of them) were mine, I wouldn't have to do that. Feel free to draw your own conclusions about my ownership or lack thereof. :-)

Chapter 14: Experimentation

Sara inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of freshly brewed coffee intermingling with the aroma of marinara sauce simmering on the stove as she leaned back against the kitchen counter with a mug full of the caffeinated liquid. Crossing the kitchen in two quick steps, she removed the lid from the pot and picked up the wooden spoon lying beside the stove. After running the oversized spoon twice through the thick tomato sauce, she glanced up at the clock. _40 more minutes. Good, I'm starving_. Cocking her head to the side, she was thankful to hear the continued sound of running water from the rear of the townhouse, and she hoped she could have dinner almost ready by the time Grissom was out of the shower.

Turning to open the pantry door in one fluid movement, she grabbed the pasta from the third shelf and dropped it onto the counter next to the wooden spoon. Bending at the knees, she rummaged through the cabinet adjacent to the stove in search of a small pot for the pasta and a frying pan for steaming the requisite vegetables. Both were easy enough to find, and she happily pulled them from their nesting places and placed them on the kitchen counter next to the sink. Folding her arms across her chest, she surveyed the ingredients, nodding in approval. She'd already made the salad, and it was still too early to cook the pasta and vegetables. Trying to stave off boredom, she walked over to the couch to retrieve the file and case notes before carefully seating herself atop a barstool at the counter.

Thumbing through the pages of the file, she came across the autopsy report, quickly noticing that the modus operandi in each case was eerily similar. Each victim with the injection of a lethal amount of a foreign substance into a major blood vessel, each with restraints around the wrists, and neither with any sign of forced entry at their homes. But, while the circumstances surrounding their deaths were very much alike, their lives couldn't have been more different.

Picking up Grissom's list, she glanced over it again. Ally Shea worked as an environmental engineer at Lake Mead and was finishing up her Ph.D. at UNLV; Marilyn Ellis was a housewife with a high-school education. Shea was single with a live-in boyfriend and no children; Ellis had been married for seventeen years and was the mother of three. Shea was in her late twenties; Ellis was middle-aged. _OK, he doesn't choose his victims based on occupation, marital status, or age. How **does **he choose them?_

She shook her head in frustration. That, of course, was the million-dollar question. She flipped through the pages of the file, searching in vain for the elusive clue that would answer it. Discovering how serial killers chose their victims was the key to finding them. _So, Sara, what do a young professional woman and a middle-aged housewife have in common? _Sighing heavily, she groaned aloud, "I don't know." _We need to learn more about the victims. Their habits, what they liked, where they went, who they knew..._

She sat up straighter against the wooden-backed stool, her eyes suddenly wide. Turning back quickly to the front of the folder, she tapped her finger against the cover page. The only way to find out more about their victims was to talk to the people who knew them. Repeating the number silently in her head, she reached for the cordless telephone on the other side of the counter.

After four rings, an answering machine picked up, and Sara listened intently to the female voice on the tape. The woman sounded older, maybe a little frazzled, as if she'd had a taxing day and having to record a message on her answering machine only added to the stress. When the mechanical beep sounded, Sara strove for a balance of professionalism and compassion as she spoke. "Hi, Mrs. Shea. My name is Sara Sidle, and I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We're looking further into your daughter's case, and I was hoping to speak with you. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience." She left her cell phone number and, after muttering a polite thanks, hit the button to hang up the phone.

She looked back at the file, absorbing the information on Jeremy Rankin. He was a lawyer with a prominent criminal defense firm in town, and both his work and cellular phone numbers were listed. Casting a quick glance at her watch, she noticed that it was nearly 6:00. _That rules out his being in court_, she thought as she dialed his cell phone number.

After two rings, a male voice answered. "Jeremy Rankin." His voice was curt, efficient, the tone of a man with too much to do and too little time in which to do it.

"Yes, Mr. Rankin, my name is Sara Sidle, and I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. My colleague and I were hoping to speak with you in regards to the Allison Shea case?" She spoke quickly in response and, while it was phrased as a question, it really wasn't. She could call Brass and make this happen if Rankin resisted, but she didn't see why he would and wasn't about to foster an adversarial relationship if it wasn't necessary.

"Do you have new information on Ally's case?" His voice was softer now, and she could hear the pain that seemed to bubble just beneath its surface. It shot directly to her own heart, but she had to maintain her professional distance. She could not tell him the same killer had struck again until they had evidence to confirm that conclusion.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the particulars of the case, sir, but we would certainly like to speak with you as we investigate further. It could be very helpful."

"I've already told CSI and the cops everything I knew. And now it's been two years. I can't imagine that it would be all that helpful to you, but I'm willing to talk. Um..." He paused, and she could hear the sound of papers being shuffled. "I'm still at work," he told her apologetically. "I have a big court case tomorrow. How soon do you want to talk?"

"As soon as possible," she told him matter-of-factly. She didn't want to inconvenience him, but she was eager to find out everything she could, and she wanted to do it quickly.

He sighed, the heavy sound of a man torn between responsibilities. "OK. I'll make time if you can come by my office tonight. I'll probably be here until 10 or so."

She smiled and glanced down at the file. "We'll be there. Is your office still at 1110 South Rancho?"

"Huh?" His voice was confused at first, and then sadness took over. "No, no, I don't do criminal defense anymore. I couldn't... not after what happened to Ally. I'd see these people come in, and they were clearly guilty, and I was expected to help them get away with murder. I stayed with Foreman, Thomas, and DeLoach for maybe a month after Ally died. Then I came over to this side. I'm an assistant DA now. I get to lock up the scum of the earth. The pay's not as good, but I've never been happier." The sadness had morphed into rage and, as she listened to the passion in his voice, she knew that his anger at his girlfriend's killer was what fueled his work.

Rankin took a deep breath, and some of the fury seemed to dissipate. "Do you know where my office is, Ms. Sidle?"

"It's Sara and, yes, I do. My colleague and I will be there within the next couple of hours," she promised. And, as she hung up, she remembered for the first time that she hadn't even consulted Grissom. _Well, he didn't say I couldn't help. Just that I could review evidence with eyes, no hands. There are no hands involved in an interview_. She hoped he would agree because she was going to question Jeremy Rankin regardless.

XXXXXXXXX

Brass lazily sipped his coffee as he thumbed through the newspaper. He'd finished the front section, quickly skimming the local news since he lived most of it firsthand, and was now halfway through sports. _Mets lost again_, he thought. _Figures_. He'd lived in Vegas nearly twenty-five years now, but he still clung to his Jersey roots when it came to baseball. Even though that usually meant putting up with the Mets and their losing ways.

A casual glance over the business section told him his retirement fund had taken another beating, and he made a mental note to call his financial adviser and have his mutual fund converted to a bond predominance. Jim had always been aggressive in his investing, and it had largely paid off. But he had now reached an age where it was wiser to err on the conservative side of the stock market.

The entertainment section was tossed aside quickly after little more than a cursory glance at "Peanuts." _I miss "The Far Side,"_ he thought. _That Gary Larson was a genius. These new comic strips just don't measure up_.

The paper complete, he turned his full attention to the now-lukewarm coffee. A quick look at his watch informed him that he had two hours before his shift started. Shifting in his seat, he fixed his gaze on the Vegas skyline situated against a backdrop of rosy clouds outside his living room window. Lurking somewhere out there was a killer who had savagely severed a mother from her three children and remorselessly threatened his friend's security in one fell swoop. Brass narrowed his eyes at the view without really seeing it. _I'm glad I got her out of there_.

He tilted his head back as he drained the mug. Setting the black LVPD cup back on the table, he smiled at the thought of Sara staying with Gil. She had certainly tried to protest when he'd first taken her there, and he knew she and Gil had seemed a little awkward around each other lately. But it really was the best option he could think of at the time.

Later, he had questioned his own judgment. Driving home from his shift that day, it suddenly occurred to him that the relationship between Sara and Gil was incredibly complicated. He knew his friend's feelings for his employee, though they had never openly discussed it. Men didn't talk about that kind of stuff. Sports, cars, even physical relationships with women. Well, maybe not Gil, but most men. But emotions? Uh-uh. Never.

Nevertheless, he knew. Brass was nothing if not perceptive. And, even if he hadn't noticed the lingering looks Gil sometimes leveled at Sara when he knew she wasn't aware, the weary monologue the CSI had poured out in identifying with a murder suspect had painted the canvas of his feelings all too vividly. "Someone young and beautiful comes along... She offers you a new life with her... I couldn't do it," he had said. Brass had heard the regret, the defeat in his voice, and he felt nothing but sympathy for his friend.

He had left the room as soon as he had gathered the recording of that interrogation. Gil didn't need his shoulder to cry on. He needed privacy, and that Brass could offer. He strode purposefully down the hall past the observation room, intent on putting everything about this case out of his mind. But a still figure in the room caught his eye as he passed, and he slowed enough to allow his brain to process the information. His eyes widened in recognition as he took in Sara's resigned posture. He resumed his original pace, his resolve to forget only strengthened by the sight.

And he had now unwittingly put the two of them together in a volatile mixture. He felt as though he had tossed gunpowder onto a lit flame and was inadequately shielded against the inevitable explosion.

He had been surprised when Gil had readily agreed to have Sara stay at his place. True to his word, Brass had continued to make calls in an attempt to find protection for the young scientist. Well, to be accurate, he'd made a visit. A young officer he'd caught in the locker room had agreed to stay with Sara, and Brass had just gotten off the interstate that morning on his way to relay the good news. That's when he'd seen it. Stopped at a traffic light, he'd glanced to the left toward a roadside produce stand, and his jaw had dropped slightly when he saw Gil and Sara chatting with an elderly woman. He had watched, mesmerized, as the three conversed amiably, but it was the adoring gaze the supervisor had fixed on his younger colleague as she'd walked towards a fruit-laden table that ultimately convinced him. The car behind him had honked its horn then, and he had driven through the green light, pulling out his phone to notify the young cop that his protective services would not be needed after all.

The seasoned detective smiled as he pushed himself away from the table, buttoning his white dress shirt as he stood. He had a pretty good idea they were fine, but he should probably call Gil to let him know he hadn't forgotten his obligation to protect Sara. _I can always say I'm still looking_. He snorted as he picked up the phone.

XXXXXXXXX

Icy streams from the shower coursing over his body shocked Grissom back into reality. Summoning up an extra measure of strength from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he pushed himself away from the wall, somehow managing to support his weight on shaky legs. Shivering as he stood under the freezing water, he reached for the spigots and swiftly turned them off.

As he grabbed his towel and wrapped it around himself, he noticed that his hands were shaking and wondered fleetingly whether it was the result of the water temperature or his recent revelation. _Probably both_, he thought, and it surprised him that it didn't bother him. Sara had always affected him, and it was high time he acknowledged it.

As he rubbed the towel vigorously over his arms and then the rest of his body, he allowed himself to come to grips with his feelings. Fear had been a constant companion for years, but he had made it useful. It had helped him erect his life into the controlled environment it had become, one with compartments and structure and without loose ends and loose cannons. It was all very scientific. The only variables were the ones he introduced, carefully plotted so that there was nothing to corrupt the experiment. _But what exactly are you trying to prove?_

He encircled the towel around his waist and stepped out of the shower, wiping a hand across the fogged mirror as he stood in front of the sink. A streaky image of himself appeared in the glass, and he peered closely at the figure as though examining a suspect, searching for the truth behind the lies. _What is your hypothesis, Gil?_ The thought of his own name made him blink and lean away from the mirror in surprise. He hadn't realized until this very moment that Sara had never used his first name until... when was it?... today, yesterday, a lifetime ago? He closed his eyes, weighing his options and knowing that this was it. This would be the moment that would determine the course of his life, no matter what his decision was.

For the briefest of moments, time was suspended, and life hung in mid-air. When he opened his eyes, he met the gaze of his mirror image, honest, vulnerable, open. But not afraid. The decision was made, and a new variable would be introduced into the experiment. A volatile variable he had never been able to control, but he didn't care anymore. He wanted to see the results. Gil Grissom was a scientist, after all, and experimentation was his life. He smiled as he reached for his razor and turned on the water.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara's eyes scanned the trace report. Some sort of oil and gasoline mixture had been found at the Shea crime scene. Out of context, she had no idea what it meant, and she furrowed her brow in concentration as she tried to piece it together with the rest of the evidence. When the phone rang, she reached absently for the cordless receiver next to her. "Sidle."

The momentary pause on the other end of the line made her realize she had picked up the phone at Grissom's house, and she mentally kicked herself as a gruff voice spoke up. "Sara?"

Recognizing the caller immediately, she let out a small sigh of relief. "Yeah," she said. Of all people, Brass would be the least likely to give her a hard time.

"You answering the phone at Grissom's these days? Making yourself right at home, huh?"

Or maybe he would. "Apparently."

He laughed at her exasperated tone but quickly turned serious. "How ya doin', kiddo?"

She smiled at his concern. "I'm good. Just bored. This macho man is keeping me cooped up in the lab and won't let me go out and catch the bad guys."

Brass chuckled. "Does it make me a 'macho man' if I agree with him?"

"Well, if the shoe fits," she answered with a laugh, reaching for her coffee. "What is it with the testosterone overload around here these days?"

He smirked. "I've been called worse. And, hey, just be glad the testosterone is being used to protect you and not to hunt wild game or something equally as masculine, like getting a tattoo. You know, come to think of it, tattoos could be entertaining. I'll have to talk to Gil about that."

She choked on her coffee, sputtering and coughing as a mental image of Brass and Grissom at the local tattoo parlor crossed her mind. She could almost picture Grissom protesting that the tarantula gracing his bicep was not anatomically correct. Never mind that it wore a patch over its eye, was named Spike, and had a wooden stump counted among its eight legs. Wiping tears from her eyes, she coughed once more before managing to regain her composure. Her voice a bit rough from the recent coughing jag, she told Brass, "You are not right."

He chuckled at that. "Guess you can't see it, huh? Yeah, me neither." He had called to talk to Gil, but Sara was more fun, and he was glad she'd answered the phone. Turning serious once more, he asked, "Any new developments in the case?" He'd spent much of the previous night with Nick at the Ellis household and was eager to hear whether there were any theories on what had happened to Mrs. Ellis.

"Actually, yeah." Sara was excited now. "We came across another victim – one from a couple of years ago. Very similar CODs, hands were bound in much the same way. Looks like the same suspect."

"Really? How'd you find that one?" Brass felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline rush up his spine. Her enthusiasm, it seemed, was contagious.

"Some old case files I was looking at the other night. I just happened to remember it when I was looking at some pictures of Mrs. Ellis' wrists. The second vic's name is Allison Shea, and Grissom and I are going to interview her old boyfriend later this evening."

"You are?" Brass was surprised. He hadn't been asked to attend, and the police needed to be represented at any questioning. "Is an officer going with you?"

She kicked herself for her gaffe. "No..." she answered slowly. She thought quickly, trying to explain without ratting herself out, but she couldn't come up with any solution besides coming clean. "Actually, I'm the one who set it up. Grissom doesn't even know yet."

"Sara," he chided, but she cut him off.

"I know. I just got off the phone with the guy a little while before you called, and Grissom's still in the shower. I was going to tell him when he got out. Will you go with us? We need to learn everything we can about this vic, and the only way to do that is to talk to the people who knew her." The words came out in a rush, hurrying over each other like waves at the seashore. She needed to get them out before he had a chance to argue. _Please, Brass, just say yes_, she silently pleaded.

He sighed, feeling a bit like one parent being pitted against another. If he agreed and Gil said no, Gil looked like the bad guy. He vaguely remembered playing this game with Ellie in her teen years. He hadn't liked it then, and he still didn't. One way or another, though, Sara was right. They needed to speak to the boyfriend. He took a deep breath and told her, "I'll go with _whoever_ Gil decides to send." _There. Let her supervisor make the decision_. He shrugged off the feeling that he had chickened out.

"Hmm," she grunted flatly. She was disappointed, but she completely understood his response. He was in a bad position, and it was really the only answer he could give. "OK," she reluctantly agreed. "I'll run it by him as soon as he gets out of the bathroom." Glancing up at the clock, she realized it was past time to begin cooking the pasta and vegetables. "Oh, hey, I've gotta go. Trying to make dinner."

"OK. Just tell Gil I called. See ya later." As he dropped the phone back into the cradle, he thought about her statement. They deserved the normality of dinner together. The idea brought a smile to his face, and he was glad his instincts had been correct in discontinuing his search for protection for Sara. _I think she's protected enough_, he thought with a smile.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom emerged from the bedroom while Sara was draining water from the cooked pasta. She glanced up and smiled, noticing immediately that he had clipped his beard. "You shaved," she remarked, regretting the words almost as soon as they left her mouth. Knowing her supervisor, he probably would not appreciate her commentary on his facial hair.

"Yeah, I trimmed it." He returned her smile, genuinely pleased that she had noticed. Reaching up, he ran a hand over his face. The beard was still present, but less full than it had been, revealing more of his cheeks than had been seen in over a year. It felt... weird, feeling skin that had been covered for so long. "Guess I just decided it was time for a change."

Sara peered at him closely. She'd never really thought much about the beard. One day he was clean-shaven and the next time she saw him, after a two-week vacation, he wasn't. She'd been far more concerned with the fact that the "vacation" had been for the purpose of surgery on his ears – a fact she'd learned from an exasperated Catherine after Sara had badgered her with a nightly assortment of questions regarding Grissom's whereabouts – than she had been with his new facial hair. But now she realized just how much she had missed seeing his face without anything obscuring it, and it took everything in her power not to beg him to shave it off completely.

Forcing her gaze back to the noodles, she told him, "Dinner's almost ready."

"Anything I can do to help?" he asked, with a glance around the kitchen. "Set the table, maybe?"

"Sure," she agreed, turning back to the stove to ladle the pasta into the frying pan atop the cooked vegetables.

With the quiet efficiency of a man perfectly at ease in his own home, Grissom skirted the counter, swiftly plucking glasses, silverware, and napkins from various cabinets and drawers and neatly arranging them into two place settings on the breakfast bar. His crowning touch was a pitcher of tea he grabbed from the refrigerator, carefully pouring it into the waiting glasses before dropping ice cubes into each one. Setting the pitcher down next to the sink, he surveyed his handiwork, softly telling Sara, "Ready when you are."

She had just finished filling two plates with the pasta-and-vegetable mixture and was in the process of liberally spooning marinara sauce over each. She nodded and picked up the plates, turning to face him with one in each hand and smiling at the sight of Grissom appearing quite pleased with himself as he looked at the breakfast bar. Following his stare, she grinned. "I thought you were going to set the _table_," she said with a laugh.

He met her gaze with a smirk. "Table, breakfast bar, what's the difference?" As he spoke, he took the plates from her and set them down gently at each place setting.

She shrugged as she opened the refrigerator to retrieve the salad. Handing it to him, she grabbed the tongs as she pulled down the oven door. He watched in fascination as she pulled out two steaming pieces of garlic bread and set one down on each plate. Placing the tongs down beside the stove, she quickly rounded the counter and took a seat at the breakfast bar before glancing up at him curiously. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked, with just a hint of mischief in her tone.

He pursed his lips together and walked slowly around to take his seat next to hers, his eyes holding hers as he spoke. "Oh, I'm definitely hungry."

She wasn't sure if she was imagining the suggestive nature of his response, but she felt the flush rise to her cheeks. Dropping his stare quickly before her eyes could give her away, she reached for her fork. When she dared to glance sideways at him, he was focused on his own plate, the impassive expression on his face the same as always, and only the slight lift of his mouth giving him away.

She concentrated hard on twirling a neat circle of noodles around her fork and had very nearly gotten several strands wrapped neatly around the prongs when a movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye. She glanced down at the floor sharply and jumped at the sight that greeted her.

"Grissom!" she exclaimed, her eyes still trained on the creature at her feet. "What is that?" She pointed a slightly shaking finger at the animal.

He looked down quickly to see what had surprised her, relaxing immediately when he saw who it was. "Oh," he said, grinning at her stunned expression. "That's just Nathan."

"Wha..." she began, still not wanting to take her eyes off the reptile at her feet. As casually as she could manage, she lifted her feet slightly and braced them against the wall of the breakfast bar. Sara was not easily scared, but the scaly creature who had startled her was a bit much. It would take just a minute or two to adjust to his presence.

Finally turning her gaze onto her supervisor, she found herself slightly annoyed at his smugly amused expression. She fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him, opting instead to raise her eyebrows expectantly. When he didn't answer right away, she prodded with some irritation. "Well?"

He grinned but quickly schooled it into a serious expression when he saw her rapidly increasing annoyance. Stepping down from the stool, he bent at the waist to scoop up the lizard. Sara stared in awe as he cradled the reptile, crooking a finger under its scaled chin to stroke it lovingly.

When the animal closed its eyes at his gentle caress, Grissom met her gaze timidly. "Sara, meet Nathan. My Komodo dragon," he clarified, offering her a shy smile.

"Ah," she said, dropping her eyes to the contented reptile in his arms. It all made sense to her now. She remembered a time a few years earlier when he'd had the Komodo dragon on back order. She'd forgotten about it, though, and he hadn't mentioned it again. A wave of remorse washed over her as she realized that she hadn't made a great deal of effort to show that she cared about the things that were important to him. And, suddenly, she knew she needed to make that effort.

"Grissom, can I..." Her voice trailed off, but she asked the question with her eyes as she lifted them to meet his. Tentatively, she stretched her hand out towards him, and a smile warmed his face as he looked at her.

"Sure," he said, inching the creature in his arms toward her slightly. "Just touch him gently. He likes to be petted."

Somehow, Grissom's obvious enthusiasm made her less nervous, and she cautiously laid her hand on Nathan's back. The feel of the scales tightly covering his sinewy body was intriguing, and she rubbed her hand across them. Moving her eyes up to his head, she watched, mesmerized, as the lizard's long tongue flicked out of his mouth rapidly. With a cautious smile, she glanced up at her supervisor.

He smiled back, his voice soft as he spoke. "He likes you."

She grinned as she looked back at Nathan. "How can you tell?"

He shrugged. "I just can. We understand each other." Standing slowly from his seat with his pet still encased in his arms, he headed down the hallway. "I'll put him in my bedroom while we eat."

Sara arose in turn, making her way around the counter to the sink. As she washed her hands, she thought about how happy her boss had looked in the moments before. Completely relaxed, showing affection and receiving it in kind, utterly in his element. She sighed as she returned to her stool. _Maybe he just needs animals outside the _Homo sapiens_ species_. There was no bitterness in the thought, only a true sense of curiosity. Animals loved completely and without malice; they never spitefully sought to injure. All of their actions were a logical response to a biological need or to their treatment by humans. It made perfect sense that Grissom, a man who had built his entire life around science and logic, would feel more comfortable with animals than with people, who so rarely did things logically.

He returned a moment later, taking his turn at the sink before sitting down next to her and spearing a large forkful of salad. He had just turned his attention to the pasta when she spoke. "So... Nathan? Kind of an interesting name for a reptile, don't you think?"

He couldn't hold back his chuckle as he twirled the noodles around his fork. "I was wondering when you'd ask me about that." He grinned as he popped the full fork into his mouth. Swallowing hard, he said, "I named him after a prophet in the Bible."

Intrigued, Sara smiled and cocked her head in interest, nonverbally encouraging him to continue before dipping into her own pasta. He obliged, concentrating on his plate as he began the narrative. "David was the second king of Israel and a very powerful man. So he goes out on his roof one day and sees this beautiful woman named Bathsheba taking a bath on _her _roof, and he decides that he wants her. Her husband Uriah is in his army, which happens to be out at war at the time. So he sends for her, and they, um... shall we say... enjoy each other's company... for the rest of the afternoon."

She grinned at his conservative reference to sex as she took a bite out of her garlic bread. "Wow, this story just got interesting, even if it is a little racy. I didn't know people in the Bible – what was it you called it – 'enjoy each other's company,'" she needled.

"Yes, they did," he said, his face reddening as he shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"But who's Nathan?"

He looked up at her reproachfully as he swallowed. "I'm getting there. Well, after their one-night stand, Bathsheba sends David word that she's pregnant. He panics and calls Uriah home from the front, hoping he will sleep with his wife so that the baby can be passed off as his. But Uriah is an honorable man who doesn't feel right about _enjoying his wife's company_," he grinned as he overemphasized the words, "while his countrymen are in the middle of battle. David does everything he can think of, even trying to get Uriah drunk enough to overcome those inhibitions, but all of his efforts are in vain. So now David knows he's in trouble."

Taking a long drink of his iced tea, he looked at Sara, pleased to find nothing but genuine interest in her expression. "So what happened next? And where is Nathan in all of this?" she asked eagerly.

He laughed. "Give me time, Sara! OK, well, David decides that the only way to fix this problem is to kill Uriah and take Bathsheba as his wife. He sends a letter to his general telling him to put Uriah on the front line of the battle and to have the army retreat so that he'll be killed. And the general does just that, sending back word that Uriah is dead. David then brings Bathsheba to the palace as one of his wives, thinking no one is the wiser."

Sopping up the last of the marinara sauce with his garlic bread, he popped the bite into his mouth as he glanced at her. Her horrified expression surprised him. "Please tell me it doesn't end like that," she said, her voice pleading.

He shook his head, smiling slightly as her face relaxed. "I told you to give me time. Besides, I haven't told you about Nathan yet." His voice rose slightly in a humorous mimic of hers, prompting her to grin. "So David thinks everything is fine, and his life is the same as always except with a couple more mouths to feed. And that's when Nathan, God's prophet, shows up. He comes in and tells David this story about a rich man who, rather than eat one of his own sheep, chooses instead to kill a lamb that has been raised as a pet by a poor man. David is incensed, and he condemns the rich man to death right there on the spot. But then Nathan points his finger in David's face and tells him, '_You _are the man!' And David knows he's absolutely right."

His voice softened as he continued. "I always thought Nathan was completely fearless. I admire that about him. David could very easily have killed him, but he told him the truth anyway. Not many people have that kind of courage."

She nodded, realizing that what he had just said spoke volumes about the man he was. Taking it all in, she spoke gently, not wanting to spoil the moment. "Is _your_ Nathan fearless, too?"

He smiled fully as he turned to face her. "Yeah. The first night I brought him home three years ago he was only about this long," he stated as he held his hands about six inches apart. "But he wanted to explore everything. And he still does," he grinned. "He gets into anything and everything. That's why I have to keep him locked up when I'm asleep. If I don't, I usually wake up with him curled across my head."

"He likes you, huh?" Sara smiled.

"Well, he likes my body heat anyway. And the fact that I feed him," he added, but the affectionate tone of his voice gave away that he thought there was more to it than that. He shook his head as he got up to scoop a second helping of the pasta concoction onto his plate. "This is really great. Want some more?" he asked as he placed his own plate down on the breakfast bar and held out his hand for hers.

"Maybe just a little bit," she agreed.

"So where'd you learn to cook like this?" he asked, sounding truly impressed.

"My parents' bed-and-breakfast," she responded matter-of-factly. Shrugging when he turned to face her with raised eyebrows, she said, "When it was busy, you had to pitch in. David and I complained about it all the time, but we didn't really have a choice."

He set her plate down in front of her before settling onto his stool. "How old were you?"

"Thanks," Sara replied absently as she squinted her eyes in remembrance. "I don't know, about twelve, I guess. At least when I first started helping."

"Your parents trusted you to make food for their customers when you were _twelve_?" he asked incredulously.

She grinned and shot him a look of mock indignation. "Hey! It's not rocket science to follow a recipe, you know."

He smiled. "I guess not. Is this from a recipe?" he asked, gesturing toward his plate as he lifted the fork to his mouth.

"I didn't say I _continued_ to follow recipes," she said with a smirk. "After a few years, I got really bored with the same old stuff and decided to spice things up. Literally. I started mixing and matching spices with a seafood dish I was making one night, and the customers raved about the results. They loved it! After that, my mom kind of let me experiment in the kitchen as long as I was willing to remake the dish according to the recipe if it turned out bad. I didn't have to remake much," she finished with a tinge of pride in her voice.

"I should think not," he said, polishing off the last bite of his pasta primavera, and she smiled at his obvious enjoyment.

"I'm glad you liked it," she said shyly, lowering her head. _Was that a compliment?_

"Understatement," he replied, prompting her to grin. _Definitely a compliment_. He looked at her, and she focused on her plate, pushing a stray noodle around with the fork, only too aware of his scrutiny and her resultant anxiety.

Casting about for a new topic of conversation, she suddenly remembered the earlier phone call and looked up at him. "Hey, Brass called while you were in the shower."

Surprised by the sudden subject change, he blinked. He could only think of one good reason Brass would be calling, and he didn't like it. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his voice as he responded. "He did? What'd he want?"

"To find out if we had anything new on the case," she said, trying to discern the best way to tell him about the meeting she'd set up for that evening. "I told him about Allison Shea."

He exhaled slowly in relief, thankful beyond belief that Brass hadn't found an officer to protect Sara. "Good," he nodded, knowing that he wasn't talking about the case.

"Um..." Sara started, biting her lip as she considered the best way to proceed. _I'll just act like this is a done deal and see where it gets me_."I asked him to come along with us when we go talk to Jeremy Rankin tonight."

Grissom's head shot up, and he looked at her with confusion. "Who?"

"Jeremy Rankin," she replied, saying it as if he should have known. "Allison Shea's boyfriend. He's an assistant DA, and we've got an appointment to question him at his office before shift tonight."

"We do?" he asked, frantically trying to recall when this appointment had been made and why he couldn't seem to remember it. But, when he looked at Sara, he suddenly read the entire scenario in her eyes. She was playing him, and he had almost fallen for it. He lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side, patiently awaiting the truthful explanation.

She saw the recognition in his eyes and knew immediately that the jig was up. Smiling at his ability to read her, she shook her head and said, "I didn't think I'd get it past you, but it was worth a try. I called Rankin earlier, and he said we could catch him at his office before ten. Come on, Grissom, we need to learn everything we can about this vic, and he used to live with her. You and Brass will both be with me. It'll be perfectly safe," she said, hating the fact that she was begging. She took a deep breath as she awaited his reply.

"OK," he said casually, gathering their dirty dishes as he stood. Glancing up at her as he reached for her nearly empty glass, he asked, "You finished?"

"Huh?" Entirely confused by the sudden shift in the conversation, she looked down at it uncomprehendingly.

Grissom smirked at her bewildered expression, shaking the glass in front of her just slightly. "Your tea. Are you finished with it?"

She glanced at it and nodded before looking up at him. "You're letting me go with you? I thought you'd try to keep me out of things."

"Sara, when you're right, you're right. You _should_ be there, it's at the DA's office, and Brass and I will both be with you. That's about as close to an ideal situation as I could hope for. Why would I argue? I'm not an unreasonable man." He flashed her a quick smile as he began loading the dishwasher.

She had no ready response for that, mulling over his words as she observed him efficiently clear their dinner dishes and start the machine, its mesmerizing hum oozing into the room and methodically filling the gaps left by their silence. Finally wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he looked up at her, a wide grin plastered across his face. "So when do we get to perform this frozen dessert experiment I've heard so much about?"

Her smile matched his as she got down from the stool and headed for the freezer.

**TBC...**


	15. Trappings of the Past

**A/N: **Man, this chapter was hard to write! It's taken me a while to get my thoughts sorted out with where I wanted things to go next. I've had the ending to this story written from the start. The difficult part is figuring out how to get the characters there. I hope that's sufficient explanation for the length of time between updates. Hopefully, this chapter was worth the wait. :-)

**Spoilers: **"Homebodies," "Butterflied"

**Disclaimer: **Surely you jest. Me, own _CSI:_? Yeah, right. Believe me, if I did, there'd be a whole lot less Grissom on the show because he would be at home with me. Wearing his tuxedo. :-)

**Chapter 15: Trappings of the Past**

Grissom strode quickly toward the Denali, his left hand firmly on Sara's elbow. His eyes scanned the parking lot for danger before they stepped onto its asphalt surface and traversed the short distance to the truck. After ensuring she was safely situated inside, he placed their field kits on the rear floorboard before allowing himself a short sigh of relief as he walked around to the driver's side.

Climbing into the cab of the SUV, he shot Sara a tiny smile before turning the key in the ignition. "So, tomorrow then?"

She looked at him, her own smile broad in response. "I still say you're a sore loser."

He backed out of the parking space before turning to face her with a mock-hurt expression. "Me? Definitely not. I'm just trying to practice good science here. The results of your initial experiment were inconclusive, and I'm not convinced."

She scoffed, "Good science? I think you're trying to sabotage my results, Dr. Grissom."

"Scientific misconduct is a serious charge, Miss Sidle. I hope you have evidence to back up that accusation."

"Not yet, but I do have a hunch you're just trying to get more ice cream out of me without having to admit that you really like it. Just give me the time to prove it." Her smile had become a full-fledged grin, and it evoked a matching expression from Grissom. Finally, she conceded, "OK, fine, we'll repeat the experiment, but I reserve the right to say, 'I told you so,' when you like it. _Again_."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Sara shook her head as she looked at him, the grin fading slightly as she regarded her enigmatic supervisor. "I still can't believe I'm having to perform this experiment at all. How can you not like ice cream?"

He sighed as he maneuvered the truck onto the entrance ramp to the interstate, gently pressing the accelerator to urge the behemoth vehicle up to merging speed. He thought about what to say in reply for exactly three seconds. That was the length of time it took to come to the conclusion that things worked much better with Sara when he _didn't_ think about what he should say. And so he opened his mouth and allowed the words to flow.

"My mother owned an art gallery when I was a kid. Well, she still does, but I guess that's beside the point." Glancing nervously in her direction, he caught her surprised expression momentarily before fixing his eyes back onto the interstate, focusing on the small patch of road directly ahead that was illuminated by the Denali's powerful headlights. He saw the dashed white lines pass at regular intervals on the left, ensuring that they remained in their lane, and there was something comforting in their constancy. He took a deep breath and forced himself to continue.

"Anyway, when I was about eight, my mom would make me come to the gallery every day after school. We only lived a couple of blocks away, but I was too young to stay home by myself, so I'd have to go sit in her office and do my homework or read until it was closing time. Then we'd walk home and have dinner and…" He let out a frustrated sigh, his hands reflexively gripping the steering wheel more tightly. _I'm babbling. Why can't I just talk to her?_

A quick sidelong glance in her direction informed him that she was watching him intently, engrossed in his words. Her interest boosted his confidence, and his grip loosened ever so slightly when he spoke again. "OK, I _do_ have a point here. Just up the street from the gallery was Harrison's Malt Shop. I walked by it every day on my way from school, and there was always somebody in there having a root beer float. Not too surprising since that's what they were known for," he shrugged, maneuvering the big vehicle into the left lane to pass a minivan occupied by a harried woman, a bored teenager, and a screaming child in a car seat.

She smiled slightly at his faraway look, picturing a shy, inquisitive boy with piercing blue eyes and an insatiable thirst for knowledge. "Root beer floats, huh? I love those," she encouraged.

He looked at her wistfully for a second before moving back into the right lane. "I'd always wanted to try one, and I'd ask my mom about it every day. And I do mean, _every day_. She always told me we had ice cream at home, but it just wasn't the same."

Sara nodded. A homemade bowl of ice cream just couldn't compare to a root beer float at the local malt shop in the same way that microwave popcorn couldn't measure up to the $5 bag at the movie theater.

His expression grew more melancholy as he shook his head. "So, finally, after probably three months of daily requests, my poor mother is at the end of her rope. It's been a horrible day at the gallery, and she is completely exasperated, and me asking for a root beer float is the last thing she needs. She just breaks down."

He huffed an angry snort through his nose as he shook his head, still upset with himself even after all these years. "I'd never even seen my mother cry before, but now she's got these tears running down her cheeks. And I can still remember her words forty years later. 'Gil, it's just you and me. We can't afford root beer floats. Be content with what you have. We have ice cream at home.'"

Sara's heart nearly broke at the anguish she heard in his voice and the onslaught of emotion it evoked in her. She felt terribly saddened by the narrative itself, incredibly privileged that he had shared it with her, and exceedingly guilty that she had started this conversation, albeit unwittingly, with her question. She sensed the depth of his self-loathing and identified with it fully as she was reminded of her own guilt over a family portrait and her father's death. Frantically searching for words of comfort to offer, she was disappointed to find her mental reserve sorely lacking in that department, and she settled instead for a question she hoped would divert his unpleasant thoughts. "Where was your fath-"

"Not there." He cut off her query immediately, eyes blazing and tone curt, and she mentally berated herself for her lack of perception. _In all the years you've known him, you've never once heard Grissom mention his father, and **that's** the topic you choose as a diversion? Idiot. That was stupid. Stupid!_ Her inner monologue deteriorated into far more crass language as she watched his knuckles whiten with his tightening grip on the steering wheel.

His next words were spoken so softly that she had to strain to hear them over the high-pitched hum of rubber on asphalt. "I swore to myself that I would never make my mother cry again. And I ate ice cream at our house every day until the day I left home." He heaved a tiny laugh, a joyless sound as he turned his face slightly in Sara's direction. "You know, I've still never had a root beer float."

_I have to get him out of this funk, or he'll never tell me anything about himself again_, she thought, desperate for a way to steer the conversation into happier waters. Injecting a touch of humor into her voice as she spoke, she silently prayed that it would lighten his dark mood. "Well, they're overrated."

She breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of genuine amusement when he chuckled. The spark was back in his eyes when he glanced in her direction. "That's not what you said a few minutes ago."

"No, I said I love them. Not that they're accurately rated." Sara grinned broadly at him, barely able to contain her elation at her success in prodding him from his dark and depressing memories. He smirked slightly, and she turned her gaze to the passing scenery.

The lights of extravagant hotels moved slowly past in the distance, and she noticed that they were not far from their exit. That reminded her of their destination, and she turned back to Grissom. "Hey, I saw your comparison of the cases. Nothing really jumped out at me about how he chooses his victims, though. You?"

His eyes widened as he remembered his earlier thoughts on the Shea case, and he looked at her. Shaking his head, he responded, "No, not about how he chooses them. But I did think of something that concerns you."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, encouraging him to fill her in. "You know, that note said that he had 'worked' with you before the Ellis murder." At her nod, he continued, "But, Sara, Allison Shea wasn't your case. You said yourself that it was only by chance that you even knew about it."

She snapped her head back to face the road ahead, staring out with wide eyes at a view she didn't really see, not comprehending how such an important detail had eluded her. When she looked back at Grissom, eyes wild and lips slightly parted, his initial thought was that she reminded him of an unbroken thoroughbred. "There has to be another case," she said, and there was no question in her tone.

"Yes," he replied simply.

She returned her gaze toward the side window, deep in thought as she chewed her thumbnail absently. Grissom cast cautious looks in her direction as the silence settled over the cab like an ominous cloud. His anxiety mounted with each passing second, and he opened his mouth to speak when the stillness became unbearably oppressive.

But Sara beat him to it. "Griss, I can count on one hand the number of unsolved murder cases I've been involved with since I've been here, and none of them match this MO." He glanced at her skeptically, but she cut him off as she enumerated each case on her fingers to illustrate her point. "Sandy Fletcher, college student, shot in the head and left behind a convenience store. Danielle Cummings, prostitute, stabbed in a seedy motel room after spending an hour with a john. Suzanna Kirkwood, killed outside her family's house as she was bringing home groceries." Her voice wavered a little as she spoke about the terrified teenager, but she took a deep breath and pressed on. "And Debbie Marlin, nurse, throat slashed in her bathroom."

Grissom sucked in a sharp breath at her matter-of-fact account of the one victim who had affected him more than any other, but she didn't appear to notice as she pressed on with her introspective review of the cases that haunted her. "But that's it. And, even in those cases, we always at least had a suspect, even if there wasn't enough evidence…"

Her voice trailed off, and he regarded her warily, his level of concern steadily growing. "Sara…" He began, but she held up a hand without looking at him.

"Don't start. I don't need a diversion, Grissom. I just… I care, OK? So I go back to the files every now and then when we have a slow night. I haven't finished my job for them. Everybody deserves justice, and they haven't gotten it yet," she finished softly, and he thought her defeated sigh was probably the most heartbreaking sound he'd ever heard.

"I know," he replied, trying to incorporate everything he felt into that simple statement as he slowed the SUV and pulled into the exit lane. When they came to a stop at the traffic light at the bottom of the exit ramp, he watched her as she gazed unseeingly out the passenger side window. He could feel her slipping away from him into emotional turmoil, and he knew he had to do something to reach her. _Something drastic_, he thought. Finally, he let out a quiet breath and touched her arm to get her attention. "Sara."

"Hmm?" she asked absently, her concentration still focused elsewhere.

"Let's talk."

And that simple sentence captivated her. She swiveled her head around rapidly to face him, eyebrows arching in question. "What?"

"Talk. You know, the lips and tongue coordinate to form sounds in conjunction with air vibrating over the larynx. It's the way humans communicate with each other. Surely you've heard of it?"

He ventured a smile, eyes crinkled with mischief, and she couldn't help but laugh. "Talk about what?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Anything not related to work."

"_Not _related to work?" Her initial reaction was astonishment. That is, until the full implications of what he had said occurred to her. "Wait, _any_thing?" she pressed, unable to keep the teasing tone out of her voice as she grinned.

A slightly panicked expression crossed his face as he glanced at her. "Well, anything within reason."

She smirked and tapped a slender finger against her lips as she debated which, of the plethora of questions she had always wanted to ask Grissom, would she actually pose to him at this particular juncture. He felt a flush creep up his cheeks as she continued to watch him, and he steadfastly kept his eyes fastened on the road as he steeled himself for the inevitable humiliating questions. But what actually came out of her mouth surprised him. "What were you like as a kid?"

He blinked, and his eyes narrowed before he looked over at her in bewilderment. "Me? As a kid?" She grinned and nodded her assent. He tilted his head slightly to the side as he returned his gaze to the road. "Sara, of all the things we _could_ talk about, _this_ is what you pick?"

She shrugged, but her grin did not fade as she responded. She'd been expecting this. "You said anything within reason. Our pasts determine our futures, and I want to know how you became who you are. Isn't that reasonable?"

He frowned but could not argue with her logic. _Yes, Sara, it's reasonable. Just not that exciting_. For a moment, he contemplated why it would bother him if she weren't intrigued by his childhood, but he forced the thought away before he could examine it too closely. He pursed his lips as he debated how to answer her question, slowing to a stop behind a late-model sedan at a busy intersection. Exhaling heavily through his nose, he said, "What I was like… OK…"

He shook his head, unsure of the best way to describe himself in his younger years. At last, he decided to relate some of his childhood activities. "Look, Sara, I wasn't a normal kid. I used to take care of my ant farm. I conducted science experiments. And, when I was a little older, I would go to the beach – not to swim, but to look for dead animals to dissect." He sighed, painfully aware of just how different he had always been. "What was I like as a kid? I was weird."

She frowned at his chosen terminology and shifted in her seat to face him directly, the seat belt digging into her hip unmercifully. "You weren't weird, Grissom. You were unusual."

He smirked, depressing the accelerator as the traffic light changed to green. "Well, six of one, half-dozen-"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "No, they're not the same thing. 'Weird' is a destructive word, and it always has a negative connotation. But 'unusual' can be positive, negative, or neutral, depending on the context."

He arched a brow, mulling over her comment and deciding that she was right. Glancing at her as they turned onto a side street, he nodded in silent acknowledgment of her statement, only to be rewarded with her next remark. "In this case, I'd say 'unusual' was a positive thing."

She smiled sweetly at him, and he felt the heat rising on his cheeks as his own lips curved upward seemingly of their own accord.

XXXXXXXXX

It was an unexpected delight to find a parking space so close to the courthouse, even at 8:00 at night, and Grissom seized it eagerly, expertly parallel-parking the oversized vehicle while Sara gathered her legal pad and pen. By the time he had removed the key from the ignition, she was reaching for the door handle and, for the second time in less than an hour, he grabbed her arm.

"Sara." It came out sharper than he'd intended, and he softened his tone of voice with a slight smile when she looked at him, shaking his head at her actions. "You need to wait for me," he said, looking pointedly at her hand still resting on the door handle.

She rolled her eyes dramatically but shrugged and took her arm away from the door. He nodded and, after checking the side mirror to ensure he wouldn't be struck by a passing car, got out of the Denali. He walked briskly around the front of the truck, and Sara watched him, muttering snidely, "My hero."

And, immediately, remorse washed over her. _Nice, Sara. Way to be grateful_, she chided herself. _He's gone out of his way to protect you and make you feel at home, and you respond with nothing but sarcasm. Yeah, good choice. Maybe you can ask him if he's got a puppy you can kick while you're at it_.

She was so deeply engrossed in her inner diatribe of self-reproach that she did not notice Brass' arrival until he pulled open the passenger door. "Hey, Sara, wanna join us sometime tonight?" His knowing smirk was grating, and she rolled her eyes in reply as she climbed out of the SUV.

The two men flanked her as they walked toward the enormous granite structure, and she was taken aback by just how much it unnerved her to see each of them glancing about suspiciously as they walked. "Stop that," she hissed without breaking stride.

Grissom looked at her in surprise, bringing his hand up to rest lightly against her lower back in a gesture of concern. "Stop what?"

"The paranoia," she snapped. Softening her tone a bit upon seeing his slight flinch, she glanced over at Brass before looking back at her supervisor and said, "It's not that I don't appreciate the manly man routine from you both. I do. But you're making me nervous," she finished, offering a weak smile.

Grissom didn't know how to respond to that, but their arrival at the entrance precluded it anyway. His hand still grazing Sara's back, he reached for one of the glass doors, gallantly holding it open for her. As he trailed her inside, he looked at Brass, who merely shrugged as he followed.

The stocky guard at the metal detector recognized them and, after a cursory glance at their badges and a quick documentation on his clipboard regarding their firearm possession status, allowed them to bypass the machine.

From the information board by the elevator bank, Brass quickly ascertained that Jeremy Rankin's office was on the fourth floor and, within minutes, he was knocking heavily on the door. After a brief wait, the frazzled attorney appeared, and the cop quickly made the introductions, prompting polite handshakes all around. Rankin ushered them into a plush conference room, and Sara's eyes swept the enclosure, taking in the columns of law books heaped at least three deep on the far end of the table, the piles of paper scattered at seemingly random intervals, the general state of disarray in that isolated section of an otherwise pristine room.

Seeing her knowing look, Rankin reddened and neatly gathered a stack of papers, muttering a brief apology before motioning for them to sit and offering his full attention. Sara looked briefly at her boss, who gave her a barely perceptible nod to indicate she should take the lead. She smiled slightly before turning her gaze back to the lawyer.

She focused on him for a moment, noticing the stress and fatigue that had etched themselves into the lines of his face. He was in his early thirties, but his eyes looked older, as if they had seen too much too soon. The sight saddened her, and she drew in a deep breath before she spoke. "Mr. Rank-"

"It's Jeremy," he broke in tiredly.

She smiled. "Jeremy. How long did you know Allison Shea?"

The hurt flickered across his face momentarily, but then he was all business, draping a professional demeanor over himself like a wizard's mantle. "A little over two years."

"She was your girlfriend?" Sara asked softly, though she already knew the answer. Sometimes the reaction itself was more important than the words used.

"My fiancée, actually," he corrected with a sigh. When Sara arched an eyebrow in surprise, he smiled grimly. "We were going to get married during her Christmas break from school. I only asked her the week before she..." His voice trailed off, the mantle slipping slightly as the pain of loss made its presence felt.

But he readjusted the cloak and met the young CSI's gaze resolutely. "I met Ally when I was hiking in the Sierra Nevadas with a friend. She was very natural and _very_ independent, and I loved that about her, you know? We spent the whole weekend with her and her roommate, and I learned all these little things about her. Like how she always smiled when she drank water straight from the river. How she thought it was ironic that she was studying in LA to prepare for a life of protecting nature. How she hated bugs but would never kill one because it was part of nature."

Sara glanced casually across the table at Grissom with a tiny smirk, and he glared at her mildly before directing his own question to the attorney. "You say she was studying in LA?"

"UCLA," Rankin nodded. "Finishing up her master's in marine biology. She planned to stay on and get her Ph.D. there before she went to work for Greenpeace saving dolphins from tuna fishermen. That was her passion in life. She loved dolphins and hated what people were doing to them."

"So she came here to finish her Ph.D. instead?" Sara queried.

The lawyer scoffed as he ran a hand roughly across his lower jaw. "Doesn't sound like the independent woman I just described, does it?" he asked bitterly. "Hell, UNLV doesn't even have a marine biology program. I mean, why would they? It's in the middle of the desert, for crying out loud!"

He dropped his eyes to the table, and Sara watched as he clenched his fists tightly in an attempt to calm himself down. When he finally looked back up at them, the hurt was unmistakable, the mantle lying in tatters before him. "I was tired of driving back and forth to LA, and I was trying to build a name for myself. I wanted her to come here, finish up her Ph.D., let me finish building my career, then we'd move to San Francisco. She could do her save-the-dolphin thing, I'd start my own practice, and we'd both live happily ever after. We had a huge argument about it, but she finally gave in."

Grissom silently absorbed the lawyer's words, unable to resist drawing the parallel between Sara and himself. She had given up her life and career in San Francisco to come to Las Vegas on a moment's notice – all because he had asked. His brow furrowed as his mind wandered further down its introspective path.

Rankin shook his head in frustration as he continued his narrative. "She tried to put a good face on it, and she told me she could just get her Ph.D. in environmental engineering. Said it would make her even more valuable to Greenpeace. And her undergrad degree had been in environmental engineering, so it wasn't like she was starting over. But she hated it. And I knew she did, but I didn't say anything. I just bought her gifts when I had the chance, and I asked her to marry me, knowing she'd do it."

The older CSI listened intently to the young man's words. Two years after her arrival, Sara had agreed to stay in Vegas despite her obvious unhappiness. And it wasn't because he had addressed what was making her unhappy but because he had offered her the slightest hint of something more.

The attorney sighed deeply. "The only thing she loved more than marine biology was me. And she'd still be alive if she hadn't come here." And the unspoken leap in logic hit Grissom squarely in the gut, stealing his breath for a moment.

Sara heard the implied conclusion, too, and she leaned forward to speak to Rankin more intimately. "Hey, you didn't kill her. Coming to Las Vegas was her _independent_ choice. She came because she wanted to, because she wanted to be with you. Don't cheapen that by feeling guilty about it."

As she sat back in her seat, she noticed Grissom's intense stare and met his eyes momentarily, her own narrowing slightly in confusion. The force of his scrutiny made her uncomfortable, and she looked away quickly, trying to make some sense of the scribbles on her legal pad even as she felt the continuing heavy weight of his gaze on her.

Brass noticed the charged moment and recognized it for what it was – Gil figuring things out. _Finally_. He stepped in for the flustered pair and mentioned something he'd noticed a little earlier. "I see you're wearing a ring, Mr. Rankin."

"Yeah," the young man replied, looking down at his left hand as if seeing the ring for the first time. "I just got married a few months ago."

Both criminalists followed his gaze to the wedding ring, and Brass pushed for more details. "Somebody you met recently?"

Grissom glanced at the detective, curious as to his line of thought, but Brass kept his eyes focused on Rankin. "Um, a year or so ago," Jeremy responded absently. "She used to be a court stenographer, but she quit when we got married."

And then, as if suddenly putting it all together, the young man snapped his head up to meet Brass' gaze. "What, I'm not allowed to get married now? I'm supposed to grieve forever?"

The cop held his hands up defensively. "Hey, I was just making conversation."

"Right," the young man intoned bitterly. He looked over at Sara, directing his words to her alone, as though she were the only one in the room who would understand. "I loved Ally with all my heart. Still do. But she's been dead for two years, and I had to get on with my life. It's as simple as that."

She nodded, unsure what he wanted from her, but it seemed to appease him, and he sat back in his seat. Silence fell over the room and, at last, Rankin looked up at them with tired eyes. "Look, I want to be helpful, but I've still got a lot of work to do. So, if you don't mind…"

He escorted them out, and Grissom handed him a business card. "If you think of anything else, give us a call." The young man nodded as he shut the door behind them.

XXXXXXXXX

His hand was on her back again, and it was making her insane. Sara was always aware of Grissom's presence, whether he was across the room or standing beside her, whether he was looking at her or looking elsewhere. But his actual intentional physical touch was something else altogether, and she had to fight not to shrug away from it. Much as she enjoyed the feel of his fingers lightly grazing her lower back, it was almost more sensation than she could bear. And that's why she was so happy to see the familiar face in the break room as they walked by.

"Nick!" Her voice was probably a little too enthusiastic but, at the moment, she didn't care. And the Texan didn't seem to notice.

"What up, Sar?" he drawled, patting the seat of the couch next to him.

With a glance back at Grissom, she moved away from his hand gratefully. "I'll be all right," she assured him quickly in response to his worried expression. He looked around her at Nick for a second, fixing the young man with a withering stare that was meant to encourage him to take his role in Sara's protection seriously.

When Nick only seemed confused, Grissom rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at Sara before turning and abruptly leaving the room. The young criminalist looked up at her in surprise as he asked, "What was that all about?"

She laughed as she plopped down onto the couch beside him. "He was telling you it's your turn to babysit, and you'd better get me back in one piece." Irritated as she could get with Grissom's protective behavior, it was endearing, and it was starting to grow on her. Somehow it made her feel like he cared… She stopped her treacherous thoughts before they could wander any further toward a dead end.

Nick grinned and raised his eyebrows in question. "Speaking of babysitting, how are things going staying with the boss?"

"Fine," she answered evasively. She wanted to keep her private time with Grissom just that – private. Somehow, discussing it with Nick would spoil it and make it seem less real.

He nodded, understanding that she didn't want to share and hoping that their supervisor was being tolerable. Things had been uncomfortable between those two for a while now, but he knew the older man had feelings for her. They all knew. And they all recognized his paralyzing fear of getting involved with Sara and how it made him keep her at arm's length. For all their boss thought he was keeping his emotions under wraps, the truth was glaringly obvious to those who knew him best. And Nick was suddenly upset by the idea that Grissom couldn't manage to put his fears aside and be a compassionate human being for once. "You let me know if he doesn't play nice," the young man said, trying to maintain a joking manner.

But she heard his anger, and his level of concern went straight to her heart. Yet, she felt protective of Grissom, and she needed Nick to understand the truth. "He's being very nice," she said sincerely. She looked at her colleague, willing him with her eyes to believe her and, when he seemed to comprehend, she smiled. "Thanks, Nicky," she said and, overwhelmed by his reaction, she impulsively leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

"Hey!" he protested mildly as he reached up to wipe the spot she had kissed. "None of that mushy stuff unless you're willing to go further." He wiggled his eyebrows at her with a grin. She laughed and dug her elbow playfully into his side, prompting a weak "Ouch" from her friend.

"Hey, how's Jenny?" she asked, suddenly remembering that Nick's younger sister was due to have her first child any day now. "Has she had the baby yet?"

He shook his head with a grin. "Jeff calls me every day complaining about how she gets more and more intolerable. I keep telling him I don't have any sympathy for him. I grew up in a house with six sisters. 'Intolerable' was a way of life."

She smiled. "Have they decided on the name yet? It's getting down to the wire."

"Well, they're still arguing over middle names, but at least they've agreed on Jessica for a girl or Carter for a boy."

The mention of the boy's name made her smile more broadly, and she thought back to her earlier conversation with herself regarding surnames as first names. And her subsequent thought of "Gil" as a nice first name. Her eyes widened as she realized she had called him by that name for the first time only the day before. _I didn't even know I'd done that. It just seemed so natural at the time_.

Still in a daze, she didn't notice Nick trying to get her attention until he tapped her on the shoulder. "Earth to Sara. Come in, Sara," he grinned.

"Huh? Oh, uh, sorry," she muttered, desperately trying to refocus on the conversation.

He smiled as he told her, "It's OK. Don't worry, I'm not offended by your zoning out on me." He focused his attention on the journal in his lap.

She shook her head and smiled broadly at him, her mind still filled with thoughts of Grissom. And she suddenly remembered something. "Hey, Nick."

"Yeah?"

Reaching into her back pocket, she dug out a five-dollar bill and held it out to him. "Will you go out and get me a couple of bottles of root beer later? Twenty-ounce A&W, if you can find it. I'll owe ya." He looked confused but, to his credit, he didn't question her, just shrugged and agreed, pocketing the money without further comment.

One by one, the rest of the team filed into the room, and Nick and Sara took their places at the table. Grissom entered last, preoccupied with perusing the assignment slip in his hand. He dropped it onto the table as he sat, looking up and feeling a twinge of pride at the sight of his team assembled and ready to go. "OK, fill me in."

Catherine spoke up first. "Well, the hair I found in the Ellis bedroom is not a match to any of the family members. I just need a suspect to compare it against. And I just got the phone records for both victims' places of residence, along with cell phone records for both. Haven't had a chance to look through them yet, but it's first on my agenda."

Grissom nodded and glanced at Warrick. "What about the printer?"

The dark-skinned young man nodded. "Yeah, I finally got through to LaserJet Logistics, but I don't know how helpful their info is going to be. Their last three clients in this area are the Tangiers, Nevada State Bank, and Desert Palm Hospital. Each one bought at least 300 new printers."

Nick let out a low whistle, and Warrick nodded. "I know. Unless we can narrow that down, it doesn't help much." He turned back to Grissom and told him, "Oh, and there were no prints on the note. Not surprising, I guess, but kinda disappointing anyway." He looked at Sara apologetically, and she gave him a heartfelt smile despite the heaviness in her stomach.

"OK," their boss responded, and Sara heard her own feelings reflected in his voice. "What about you, Nick?"

"Well, we do have one unknown print from the kitchen table at the Ellises. All the other prints matched up with some family member except that one, and there are no matches in AFIS. Plus, it came from the table near where the note was found."

"That doesn't make sense, though," Sara chimed in. "There weren't any prints on the note itself but he left one on the table?"

Nick agreed. "I know. I thought the same thing. Only thing I can figure is that he only had on one glove? Farfetched, I know."

It was Greg's turn to comment. "Well, the DNA from the plate found in the kitchen was XX. No matches in CODIS. What if the killer is female?"

All eyes turned to face him, and he could almost see the wheels turning. It was Sara who spoke first. "Well, most serial killers are male, but there are the rare exceptions."

Catherine shook her head in frustration. "I still don't get it. The restraints were tied so loosely they were almost for show and couldn't have had any usefulness in restraining the victims anyway. Now we're thinking a woman could have done this? I don't buy it."

Grissom shook his head, exasperated with himself for not considering all the possibilities. "We can't let ourselves be tied to conventional wisdom here. We don't really have all of the information. Maybe the restraints were physical, maybe psychological. Either way, until we know more about whatever was used on the victims, we can't rule anything out. A female suspect is just as viable as a male."

"Wait, victims?" Nick broke in. "As in, more than one? I thought we just had Marilyn Ellis."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Sara responded with a sheepish grin. "Guess we should fill you in. We found a second victim." She reached into her field kit and laid the Shea file down on the table in front of Nick. "Allison Shea, 28. She was a Ph.D. student at UNLV and was found dead in the apartment she shared with her boyfriend in August of 2002. Cause of death was a lethal injection of sodium chloride into the carotid artery."

Nick nodded, the light of familiarity shining in his eyes, and Warrick commented, "Hey, I remember that case. Nick and I thought at first that it was the boyfriend, but he had a rock-solid alibi. Lawyer, right? Working on a big case with a bunch of other lawyers?"

She nodded. "Grissom and I just got through talking to him. He's an assistant DA these days. He didn't really have a lot of pertinent information, but we did find out a little bit about her background. Maybe it will help us figure out how the killer chooses the victims."

Opening the file to the photos of the crime scene, she pointed to the fishing net wrapped loosely in a figure-eight pattern around Shea's wrists. "This is really similar to the way Marilyn Ellis was bound, except she was restrained with pantyhose."

Grissom picked up the assignment slip and extended it toward Nick as he spoke. "But, important as the Ellis and Shea cases are, I can't have all of us working on them. I need you and Greg to handle this one. 419 found in the desert. Vartan will meet you there."

The younger CSI started to protest but thought better of it when his supervisor glared at him, and he reached instead for the slip. "Sure, Griss." Rising from the table, he squeezed Sara's shoulder lightly and grinned at Greg. "Come on, young one, we'll have you using your Jedi powers in no time. Learn from the master."

"Yeah, right. I'll try to do that," the spike-haired scientist snorted as he got up and grabbed his own field kit from the floor.

"Do or do not. There is no try," Nick responded, earning guffaws from the two remaining younger CSIs and bewildered stares from their older counterparts. "Sorry," he shrugged, fairly shoving his charge through the door ahead of him.

Sara watched them shuffle out before returning her attention to her boss. He met her eyes briefly before turning slightly to incorporate Warrick into his gaze. "I want you two to go over the Shea case. Rick, fill her in on what you learned when you had the case originally, and Sara can tell you more about our talk with the boyfriend. Maybe you'll find something that's been overlooked."

Turning to Catherine, he jerked his head towards the door and said, "Let's get to those phone records."

As he followed the blonde out of the room, he turned and called Sara by name. When she looked up at him, he smiled and said, "Keep me informed." Her lips slowly curved upward as she watched him walk away.

**TBC…**


	16. Intuition

**A/N:** Man, this website picks the worst times to go down! But I am very grateful that things are back up and seem to be running smoothly. crosses fingers that it will stay that way! As much as I love reviews, you can imagine my disappointment when I only got a few with the last chapter. Come on, make my day! Just go down to the bottom of the page, and hit that little button that says, "Submit Review." You can do it! :-)

Thanks also to those who corrected me about the Komodo dragon. Fascinating animals, but a little dangerous for domestication. And, to think I actually did some research on them before I wrote the chapter - obviously, not enough! :-( Oh, well, chalk it up to artistic license! :-)

**Spoilers:** "The Strip Strangler," "Burden of Proof," "Pledging Mr. Johnson"

**Disclaimer: **Boy, if I owned _CSI:_, I'd _really _have something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. But, since I don't, I guess I'll just have to be content with being thankful for that whole roof-over-my-head, clothes-on-my-back, food-on-my-table thing. You know, the little stuff. :-)

**Chapter 16: Intuition**

Nick and Greg trudged the half-mile distance back to the Denali at a snail's pace. The scene had been extensive, and exhaustion had long since set in. They each carried multiple evidence bags in addition to their field kits. Who knew one measly body could be so much work?

Greg swiped the back of his arm across his sweaty forehead as he followed his friend. _I thought the desert was supposed to be cold at night. It must be over 100 degrees out here. Or maybe it's just that I had to line up evidence markers on footprints that led me half a mile back into the desert_, he thought ruefully.

Reaching the passenger side of the SUV, the young scientist dropped his field kit and removed a latex glove with a resounding snap. He'd always had a love-hate relationship with the rubber coverings. Loved the cleanliness, hated the confinement; loved the protection, hated the restraint. _Kinda the way I feel about the DNA lab. Except that's more of a hate-hate relationship. Huh_.

That thought irked him, and the other glove came off with more force, the sound echoing off the truck and bouncing back at him from a nearby sand dune. Annoyed, Nick looked up from his Maglite-illuminated search through a mass of keys. "Dude, what's your problem?"

"Sorry," the younger man mumbled, reddening when the CSI eyed him curiously. He glared at the gloves, angry with them for getting him into trouble and exacting his revenge by crushing them tightly into a ball between his hands. Deep down, he knew it was irrational to have such deep-seated emotions towards a pair of inanimate objects, but that did little to ameliorate his feelings at the moment.

As he stared down at the gloves, he suddenly remembered the advice Sara had given him a few weeks ago to always hang onto his used gloves as they were also considered evidence. He could remember it all with perfect clarity, and he placed the wadded latex into a pocket of his vest absently, mentally kicking himself for handling them so roughly but mostly thinking about Sara.

When he heard the door latch click open, he pulled open the back door and dropped the kit onto the backseat before climbing into the front. His counterpart waved goodbye to Vartan and a uniformed officer and pulled out onto the isolated two-lane highway that would take them back toward the garish lights of Vegas.

"Hey, Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really think the serial killer's a woman?"

"Huh?" The CSI's mind was still on their half-nude DB found behind a boulder out in the desert. In the midst of trying to make sense of two sets of footprints walking to the spot and one set running out, it wasn't that easy to switch gears.

"The case Sara and Grissom are working on. Aren't female serial killers really rare?"

"Well, yeah, Greg, but you're the one who brought it up. Remember?"

"I know," the young man replied absently. "But what if there's another explanation for the DNA on that plate? And why would the killer have stopped to eat something?"

"Well…" Nick paused a moment, considering. "Maybe he – or she…" he added as an afterthought, "…knows them. Comes in, eats with them, then kills them. There wasn't any sign of forced entry at the Ellis residence and, as I recall, none at the Shea residence, either." He squinted as he tried to recall details of the two-year-old case.

Greg shook his head. "There was only one plate. And only one DNA sample."

Nick shrugged. "Maybe Mrs. Ellis wasn't hungry but wanted to feed her guest." He sighed. The whole thing didn't make a lot of sense. "Regardless, though, maybe she had a guest who wasn't her killer." He thought for a moment, then wondered aloud, "Who would come over to visit? A neighbor, maybe? Or an old friend?"

The trainee nodded eagerly, and his partner smiled. "Why don't you call Brass and ask him to talk to Mr. Ellis about female visitors his wife might have had?"

The surprise evident on his face, Greg smiled and fished out his cell phone, thumbing through the phone book quickly in his search for the detective's number. Nick could hardly suppress his smile at the young man's reaction. He was like a kid in a candy store.

After he hung up, the two rode in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. But, as the lights of the city came into view below them, Greg suddenly broke the stillness with a question. "Do you think Sara's OK staying with Grissom?"

Greg's voice was tentative, but there was an undertone to the question that made Nick uncomfortable. He loved Sara, would do anything for her, even if it meant taking up her cause with their boss. But he was fiercely loyal to the older man – heck, he loved him, too – and this felt a little bit like discussing family business with an outsider. The Texan stiffened, unsure how to answer.

The younger man must have noticed because he quickly clarified. "I just mean, I don't know, there's been these kind of bad vibes between them lately. She acts tough, but I think, deep down, he kind of hurts her sometimes. I just hope he's treating her OK, you know?"

He did know. The dark-haired CSI blew out a breath as he debated how to reply, but Greg spoke again before he had the opportunity.

"And I think she can really get to Grissom. He cares about her a whole lot more than he lets on. But I guess he's afraid of that or something, so he keeps her at a distance. And that just hurts her more. So I just hope she's OK staying with him."

The Texan kept his eyes on the road, unwilling to show how taken aback he was with Greg's insight. When he was sure he had schooled his features into neutrality, he turned to look at the young trainee, raising one eyebrow in silent question. The young man shrugged in response and bashfully replied, "I just care about Sara, OK? I know I haven't worked out in the field with her for as long as you have, but she's my friend, too. I don't want her to get hurt. Or Grissom, either, for that matter."

The last part came out almost as an afterthought, but Nick heard the sincerity behind it. He nodded as he trained his eyes on the road, trying to decide what to say. He felt bad for thinking of the young man as an outsider. Sure, he wasn't a CSI – yet. But he was getting there, and Greg obviously cared about each team member just as much as any of them did. His question hadn't been asked out of any sort of gossipy motivation but out of a genuine concern for his friends. And Nick realized in that moment that he should answer honestly.

His decision made, he turned his head to face the lab-tech-turned-investigator and responded as truthfully as he knew how. "I talked to her about it tonight. She said Grissom's been real nice."

The younger man looked skeptical. "Do you think she was telling the truth?"

His answer was emphatic. "Yes." He could still remember the expression on Sara's face just before she kissed him on the cheek. Her answer was definitely an honest one.

Greg's face relaxed, and Nick couldn't resist ribbing him a little. "So, Greggo, admit it. You just wanted Sara to come stay at your place, didn't ya?" He grinned at the blush that crept up the young scientist's face. "That's what I thought. You've got it bad, man."

"Yeah, well, she's only got eyes for somebody else," he replied, and there was no bitterness in his tone.

Nick was struck once again by the younger man's perception, and the smile faded from his face as he said sincerely, "You're gonna be a really great CSI, Greg."

XXXXXXXXX

Sara catalogued the last of the evidence from the two cases onto a comparative list on the dry-erase board as Warrick dropped the bag onto the one remaining clear spot on the layout room table. "OK, that's the last of it," she said, as she stepped back to survey the organized mess they had created.

Raising an eyebrow at her, her colleague asked, "Now what?"

Arms crossed against her chest, she pursed her lips as she shook her head. She studied the contents of the table for a moment before releasing a heavy sigh. "Do you think this really is a female killer?"

He stared at her, surprised that she seemed to be questioning Grissom's edict to rule nothing out. "You don't think so?"

She blew out a breath, turning her palms up as she admitted, "I don't know." She picked up the matching sets of crime scene photos from the table. "It's just…" After studying the photos for a moment longer, she met his eyes. "I know I don't have any evidence to prove it, but this still seems like a male killer to me."

"Is this some kind of really weird male bashing?" he questioned, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

She grinned. "Well, guys _are_ jerks…"

He brought his hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture. "Oh, you hurt me. That's harsh."

Her smile slowly faded as she looked back at the photos. "It's just that about 90 of all serial killers are males, most of those white males, and they usually kill white females. They rarely know their victims or have any real hatred for them, per se. And they're typically of above average intelligence, which makes them really difficult to catch."

Warrick cocked his head as he looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You sound like Grissom. When did you become a serial killer expert?"

One corner of her mouth inched upwards as she responded. "Do you remember the Syd Goggle case?"

He nodded. "The Strip Strangler? Yeah, of course I do. Weren't you a decoy for the FBI in that case?"

She gave him a humorless smile as she met his eyes. "Yeah, Grissom was so ticked off at me for that, but I had to do something. Those women were getting killed, and we weren't moving fast enough." She shook her head as the memories brought back the frustration. "I checked out every book I could find on serial killers after that."

He grinned. "Picture that. You learning all you can about criminals? No way," he teased. Nudging her arm, he said, "'Fess up, Sar. You were trying to impress the FBI, weren't you? Gonna leave us and go capture the next 'Hannibal the Cannibal'?"

She glanced up at him sharply, wondering momentarily if he knew of her leave of absence request from two years earlier, but his widely naïve smile bore testimony to the innocence of his comment. She smiled softly, and her admission was spoken so quietly as to be nearly inaudible. "Maybe once upon a time."

She paused as a mental image of her supervisor intercalated itself into her thoughts – lips curved ever so slightly upward to form a bashful smile after she'd told him he was an "unusual" child, cheeks tinged pink across the upper edges of his beard, eyes clear and blue as a mountain lake and billowing with more emotion than she'd ever seen in their depths. Drawing a deep breath, she looked up to meet Warrick's curious gaze and smiled as she shook her head. "But not anymore." And it didn't even surprise her to realize it was the truth.

A slow smile spread across his handsome face, and he replied with a nod. "Good."

She heard the sincerity in his voice and had to swallow past the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat before she could speak again. Looking back at the table, she dropped the crime scene photos and said, "Why don't we start with what they _don't_ have in common?"

"Suits me," her partner shrugged with a quick glance at the dry-erase board. Something caught his eye, and he studied the contents of the table until he found what he was looking for – a trace report from the Shea murder. "What about this? Nick and I agonized over this for hours when we first had this case. There was a tiny smudge of this stuff just outside the door of the vic's apartment. He swabbed it and, come to find out, it's a mixture of motor oil and gasoline."

He handed the report to Sara, who perused it as he continued. "The only thing we could come up with is that a lot of lawn care equipment requires you to mix oil and gas in the engines. Weedeaters, edgers. Stuff like that." He shrugged when Sara smirked curiously at him. "What? Like I can't know something about lawns?"

She laughed. "Warrick, you live in a high-rise."

"Who do you think takes care of my grandmother's yard? I know my way around lawn equipment."

She laughed at his indignant tone, shaking her head as she looked back down at the report. "Well, Ally Shea lived in a third-floor apartment. She didn't exactly have a great need for lawn equipment."

"I know," her colleague replied. "That was the part we couldn't figure out. It was a 50:1 fuel-to-oil ratio. A lot of small engines use a mix like that. Chainsaws, some lawnmowers, even some outboard motors for boats. But there was no equipment in that apartment that would have used a fuel-and-oil mixture."

"A motorcycle?" she questioned. "A lighter one could get up on the third floor."

"Not easily," he retorted. "And, anyway, bigger engines like motorcycles and cars have the fuel and the oil housed separately."

Sara nodded. "What about the groundskeepers at the apartment complex? Maybe they were involved?"

"Thought about that, too," he nodded. "Questioned all four of them. They all had alibis."

"So the killer brings some sort of small-engine equipment with him and then takes it out with him after he kills her? I could see that if it was the murder weapon. But Shea was injected with salt water, not hacked up with a chainsaw." She shook her head in frustration. "Ugh…" she growled, handing him the report and freeing her hands to punctuate her words when she spoke again. "This is so aggravating! We have all of this evidence and not the first clue how to interpret it. And, in the meantime, this guy is out there somewhere looking for his next vic. It's Syd Goggle all over again." She sank heavily onto the stool next to the layout table and dropped her face into her hands, breathing deeply in an effort to calm down.

Warrick squeezed her shoulder soothingly. "Come on, Sar, this is getting us nowhere fast. Let's look at something else."

She nodded with her head still buried in her hands and looked up to see him holding the bagged restraints and autopsy reports on each victim. "How about we check out what's similar between our vics. Your choice," he said, gesturing toward his hands.

She reached for the autopsy reports and carefully cleared a space on the table, while Warrick dragged his chair around to sit next to her. He reached for a pair of gloves from the box on the table, and the two worked in companionable silence for a while. And, though, the only sounds in the room were those of an occasional page turning or of latex meeting nylon, Sara found his mere presence oddly comforting.

Not surprisingly, there was no further evidence to be gathered from the restraints, and Warrick finally held up the fishing net that had once bound Allison Shea's wrists, peering at it as though it would tell him all of its secrets if he stared at it long enough. Sara glanced up at his movement, her lips curving upward slightly when she noticed his absent stare. Her eyes followed his gaze, and the sight of the fishing net sparked a memory from earlier in the evening_. "…saving dolphins from tuna fishermen… loved dolphins… her passion in life…"_

"Hey, War…" she said, her eyes never leaving the net.

Something in her tone caught his attention, and he turned to look at her. "Yeah?"

Slowly, she brought her gaze from the fishing net to Warrick's face. "Did you know Ally Shea was a marine biologist?"

His eyes narrowed as he tried to piece together what she was trying to tell him. "I thought she was an environmental engineer."

She shook her head. "She was, but her master's was in marine biology, and she was planning to go to work for Greenpeace after she finished her Ph.D." Refocusing her attention on the bindings in his gloved hand, she asked, "Don't you think it's coincidental that a woman who wanted to save dolphins from tuna fishermen was bound with a fishing net?"

A gleam of understanding sparked in his green eyes, and he snapped his focus quickly to the table full of evidence. "Yeah, I do." He rebagged the net carefully before reaching for the nylons that had been used to bind their second victim. "Restraints for Marilyn Ellis." He met his partner's intense gaze as he said, "A housewife's worst nightmare?"

Sara shook her head as she arched an eyebrow at the stockings. "A necessary evil for a society wife." When she glanced back at her colleague, her smile matched his own. Things were definitely looking up.

XXXXXXXXX

Catherine's philosophy of life had been forged in the fires of an absent father, an adulterous husband, and an agonizing divorce. She could still remember with absolute clarity the exact moment when she had decided to stop selling her body for those who weren't worth the sacrifice and had chosen instead to market her brain for those who were. It was the day she had walked into her home one person and, carrying her infant daughter, strolled out a different one – after finding her husband in bed with yet another floozy, the third one that she _knew_ of. She had known when she married Eddie that he was a philanderer but had naïvely thought she could change him. By the time she arrived at her mother's house that morning, she at long last understood that that would never happen, and she had ultimately refused to talk to her husband when he called to apologize yet again. And, when her mother had asked her what she planned to do, she had simply said, "Never doubt and never look back." Words to live by. And live by them, she had.

She had always been proud of her efficiency and had long considered the ability to multitask to be a highly desirable trait in any mother – and an utter necessity in single ones. The effort she had spent cramming work, school, time with Lindsey, meals, and sleep into a 24-hour day had been the best way to put her new mindset into practice. Time was precious and not to be wasted, least of all on things as unproductive as doubt and regret.

Her newfound efficiency quickly became as much a part of her as breathing, and the no-doubt philosophy had been honed over the years to include a corollary: economy of activity. Every energy expenditure she made – whether in thought or in deed – would serve some purpose. If it were an exercise in futility, she would have no part of it.

Now, as she pored over the thirteenth page of phone records from the Ellis household, she was beginning to question whether she had correctly applied that corollary in this situation. The entire quest through a seemingly never-ending pile of documentation seemed to be completely useless and, yet, here she sat, either unwilling or unable to give up the search for a clue.

Raising her eyes, she peered across the desk at the man who had, almost singlehandedly, helped her to formulate a new life, a better one for both her and her daughter, far away from the seedy underbelly of Las Vegas that she had always known. She couldn't claim that Gil was perfect. On the contrary, he had done a number of things that made her flat-out furious, starting with keeping Eddie's indiscretions to himself rather than telling her about them. Even thinking about that now still made her blood boil. As a matter of fact, she and Gil had clashed more often than she'd like to admit, and it still amazed her that anyone could be as utterly clueless about people as he appeared to be. But he was a trustworthy friend, loyal as an old sheepdog; he had always been there for her, had never seen her as a second-class citizen because of her past, and she loved him for reasons that were too numerous to list.

He was unaware of her gaze upon him, and she took advantage of the moment to study his features. He looked less tired than usual, and the lines around his eyes were less pronounced. And something else was different. She narrowed her eyes in concentration. _What is it about him?_

"Catherine, do I have something on my face?" he asked irritably, shifting slightly in his seat to peer over his glasses at her.

Anyone else would have been intimidated by that look; the blonde merely smiled. _Obviously more aware than I gave him credit for._ "No. I was just noticing that you shaved."

"Yes," he agreed, running his right hand over his face. "Now that we've established that I do, in fact, own a razor and know how to use it, did you find anything?" He gestured with his head toward the stack of phone records in front of her.

Heaving a drawn-out sigh, she dropped the pages onto his desk and held up a slender finger. "One call, Gil. In thirteen pages of phone records – most of which seem to be to or from the Ellis teenagers and their Playmates of the Month – there is only _one_ lousy phone call that's even remotely out of the ordinary, and it's probably just a wrong number!"

Her voice rose with each syllable until, by the end of her sentence, she was speaking in a higher octave. And, for whatever reason, it struck him as hilarious. Grissom pressed his lips together tightly, but the uplifted corner of his mouth gave away that he was trying to suppress his mirth. "Are you _laughing_ at me?" she asked, her expression an odd mixture of annoyed and surprise.

"Noo…" He shook his head, but she could see the smile in his eyes.

"Yes, you are," she said, trying to remain serious but failing miserably when she saw his expression.

"OK, yes, I am," he conceded, finally allowing his smirk to manifest itself. "But you've got to admit, you can get a little, um… dramatic at times. And it's humorous."

She cocked her head to the side as she looked at him, her surprise turning to full-on shock. "Well, sure, I know that, Gil. Even Lindsey tells me that. Hell, half the time I act that way just to see if I can get a rise out of _you_. But I never do. So why now? Why the sudden funny bone?"

He shrugged, not really knowing himself why he had been so amused. Usually, he found Catherine's melodramatics to be tolerable at best and annoying at worst. Maybe he'd finally lost his mind. Maybe she'd just hit a nerve. _Or maybe…_ He met her gaze with a grin as he decided to voice the thought aloud. "Maybe I'm just happy."

The blonde arched an eyebrow, but he held up his own stack of phone records from the Shea household, deftly returning them to the matter at hand. "I haven't found anything probative, either. Most of their calls were to Rankin's law office and a few to other attorneys." He looked up at her. "What about your one 'out-of-the-ordinary' call?"

She looked down and flipped through a few pages to find the one that interested her. "From a pay phone at Desert Palm to the Ellis residence. 8:36 pm on the night she was murdered. It's just a one-minute call, though, so it's probably a wrong number."

Grissom nodded, but his gaze was fixed somewhere in the air over her left shoulder. After a few moments, he spoke. "Maybe." His eyes focused on hers as he added, "But Desert Palm owns printers like the one that printed that note."

Her own eyes widened as they stared into his, and she nodded as she reached for her cell phone. "I'll call."

A hesitant voice answered after six rings, and Catherine suddenly realized she had no idea what to say. Thinking quickly, she asked for Dr. Francis Crick, waving her hand at Grissom to quiet his snort of laughter at her irreverent reference to one of the discoverers of DNA. The disembodied voice informed her that there was no one there by that name.

"Well, this is Desert Palm, isn't it?" she snapped, trying to sound as brusque as possible.

"Yes, ma'am," came the polite reply, "but this is the OR waiting room, and there aren't any doctors here at the moment."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I must have the wrong number," she said perkily, before depressing a button to end the call. At Grissom's inquisitive look, she told him, "It's the OR waiting room."

His brow furrowed as he absorbed the information, and she tapped the pages in front of him with her highlighter to get his attention. "Hey, big guy, wanna see if you can find that same number in your pile of phone records?"

**TBC…**


	17. Putting the Pieces Together

**A/N: **Greetings from China! This is one part of the world I never thought I'd visit, and yet here I am. I also did not think there could possibly be any good thing about a 13.5-hour flight but, lucky for me, I discovered that, when you're 35,000 feet in the air and sick of the in-flight movies, there's precious little else to do but write. So voilá, I offer you the next chapter. Hope you like it. :-) And, if not, I'll just blame it on jet lag. :-)

**Spoilers: **None

**Disclaimer: **OK, my claim to own _CSI:_ is about as strong as my claim to speak Chinese. Well, really less so, because I can actually say "ni hao" ("hello") in Chinese. :-)

Oh, and I have to give credit to another author for the name "Claire" for Doc's wife. Unfortunately, I can't remember whose story it was that used it.The namejust seems right to me, so I hope it's OK if I use it as well. Just wanted you to know that's not my original idea, and no plagiarism is intended here.

**Chapter 17: Putting the Pieces Together**

Greg had one final errand to complete before he could rejoin his partner to begin processing the evidence in their case. As usual, Nick had tasked him with being the gofer, and the young scientist had already made stops in trace, DNA, and ballistics to drop off a variety of evidence. Normally, such menial chores would have exasperated him, but Nick's earlier vote of confidence had smoothed ruffled feathers and allowed him to see that even the seemingly trivial jobs he was given were necessary – both to the case and to his growth as a CSI. _It's amazing what a little encouragement can do_.

And, thankfully, this last errand was an enjoyable one. He swung the plastic bag from his fingers as he turned the corner into the layout room, but his toothy smile faded quickly as he surveyed the chaos covering the table.

His wide eyes skimmed the flat surface, taking in every square inch and finding it covered either with plastic-encased evidence or with paper reports. On the opposite side of the room, Warrick and Sara, nearly hidden behind a pile of bagged dishware, were staring at a pair of tagged nylons. The comment spewed from Greg's mouth without conscious thought. "Wow, it looks like the evidence locker threw up in here."

Warrick snorted, and Sara grinned as she looked up at the trainee. "Hey, Greggo. Are you coming to help or just to rub it in?"

He returned her smile as he stepped into the room, extending the plastic bag to her. "Neither, actually. I'm just here to drop this off. Nick said it was something you asked for?"

"Oh, yeah," she said, taking the bag and inspecting its contents enthusiastically. Greg and Warrick both craned their necks to see what was inside, but she kept it judiciously just outside their line of vision. "Curiosity killed the cat, guys," she said, glancing up at them with a smile.

"C'mon, Sara, we just wanna see what's in the bag." Greg made his plea while trying to grab it from her hand.

But she was quicker, and she shook her head with the smile still firmly in place. "Not a chance, wise guy."

"But I'm the one who brought it to you, remember? I could have just looked then, but I respected your privacy," he whined.

"Good thing, too, Greg," Warrick chimed in with a chuckle. "Knowing Sara, she probably had that thing programmed to blow up in your face if you violated her privacy."

"Hey!" Sara said with mock indignation. "I'm sitting right here."

Warrick laughed. "So, you gonna show us what's in the bag or what?"

"Well, let's see," she responded, looking up at the ceiling as she pretended to consider his request. "I hadn't planned on showing you before and, now that you've insulted me, hmm…" She met their gazes with a smile. "Nope, still not."

"You're mean, Sara," Greg complained, and Warrick could only shake his head as he turned back to the panty hose. Sara gave the young man a bemused smile before placing the bag on the floor beside her chair and dropping her eyes back to the table.

The trainee watched as the two veteran CSIs worked, quickly becoming intrigued by the order they were bringing to the chaos. Finally, he asked, "So what is all this stuff anyway?"

She responded without looking up. "All of the evidence from the Ellis and Shea cases. Warrick and I are just going through it to see if we find anything with fresh eyes."

The young man nodded and watched for a moment longer before turning to leave, and he was almost out the door when he remembered his earlier conversation with Brass. He popped his head back into the room and said, "Oh, hey, I talked to Brass a while ago and asked him to check with the husband to see if Mrs. Ellis might have had any female visitors that could have left the DNA on that plate."

When they both looked up at him, he reddened. He glanced from Warrick to Sara, shuffling his feet as he said nervously, "Well, um… I just thought that, um… well, female serial killers are so rare and all and… well, maybe she had a friend over for lunch or something…" He shrugged, staring at his shoes as his voice trailed off. "It was just a thought."

Sara's voice glowed with pride as she told him, "And it was a good thought, Greg. A really good thought." She smiled warmly when he met her eyes. "Keep us posted, OK?"

He nodded, the increasing confidence in his abilities adding a noticeable spring to his step as he strode off in search of his partner.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom sighed quietly as he closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and index finger against his forehead. Squinting at the small print on the page was beginning to give him a headache, and the pain seemed to be compounded by the monotony of the task. Desperately seeking some sign of progress, he glanced at the pile of phone records next to him, but his mood only darkened at the sight of the stack appearing, if anything, larger than before. His second sigh was much louder.

Catherine glanced across the desk at her frustrated friend with no small measure of amusement. He had never been known for his patience with mundane tasks like paperwork. Noting his mounting aggravation, she pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. "Problems?"

He glared at her, annoyed that she could still be so cheerful after what seemed like hours of reviewing phone records, especially considering her earlier outburst. Narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously, he cocked his head and asked, "Are you putting some of your records into my stack?"

Her eyebrows rose in shock at the absurdity of the accusation. "What?" she sputtered. "Have you lost your mind?"

He shook his head and blew out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I just hate this."

She grinned at his understatement of the obvious. "I know, Gil. Paperwork's never been your thing."

He shot her a half-smile that faded as soon as he looked back at the stack, and he felt the exasperation return in a mad rush. Suddenly, he pushed himself back from his desk and strode quickly from the room, tossing over his shoulder, "I need a break."

Caught off-guard, Catherine barely had time to respond before he was out the door. "Gil!" Her cry was strident, but he ignored it as his long steps carried him swiftly down the hall. _With any luck, she'll be done by the time I get back_. He chuckled as he turned the corner toward the layout room.

XXXXXXXXX

Warrick looked up, his eyes settling on the comparisons listed on the board. _Typical Sara. Meticulous, thorough, completely anal-retentive_. He grinned as he rotated his neck carefully to work out the kinks, his thoughts drifting to their earlier conversation as he stared at the perfectly straight columns on the dry-erase board. _Man, she's good with this stuff. She really would've made a great FBI agent. A regular Clarice Starling_.

Sara sounded amused as she asked without looking up, "You bored?"

He huffed a breath through his nose. "Yeah, right. Frustrated maybe, but not bored. Who could get bored with a puzzle like this?" he asked as he spread his hands over the table. Unfurling his long legs slowly, he stood and walked to the opposite side of the table, surveying its contents as he leaned against it. Raising his eyes to meet his colleagues', he said, "Let's run it."

She grinned and nodded. "OK," she replied, furrowing her brow in concentration as she considered the crime. "Our perp meets Ally Shea, gets to know her, watches her for a while to learn her routines. He can't get too close, though, because she'd know he's a stalker and get scared away."

Warrick nodded. "But she has to know him well enough to let him into her house."

"And he knows that she's a marine biologist who wants to save dolphins from tuna fishermen," she responded, reaching for the fishing net that had been used in Shea's case. "Hence the restraints that say something about the vic. Sort of a sick commentary on what he knows about her. Part of his signature."

Her partner cocked his head as he looked at her, and she watched as a look of puzzlement crossed his face. "What?" she asked.

He shook his head and stared into space for a moment longer. Then, suddenly, his gaze snapped into focus, and he intently surveyed the contents of the table. When he found what he was looking for, he grabbed the report, perusing it quickly before holding it out to Sara with a smile. "The restraints aren't the only thing that's a part of his signature."

She squinted in confusion as she took the paper and scanned Allison Shea's autopsy report. While she read, he elaborated, "She was killed with salt water. That's pretty interesting commentary on a marine biologist, don't you think?"

The brunette's eyes widened, and she carefully studied the report before looking up at him. "We have to tell Grissom."

"Tell me what?" The voice floated in over Warrick's shoulder, and Sara sucked in a breath when the tall young man turned to reveal their supervisor leaning against the doorframe. Whether her gasp was a result of surprise at his sudden appearance or of pleasure at the sight of him, she couldn't be sure.

Her partner cocked a knowing eyebrow at her reaction before turning to face their boss. "Hey, Griss, check this out. We figured out that the killer's signature is pretty much a direct reflection of the victim."

Grissom's brow furrowed with interest, and he pushed himself away from the door to step further into the room. Surveying the chaos spread out over the table, he asked, "How so?"

Sara supplied, "OK, Ally Shea was a marine biologist who wanted to go to work for Greenpeace saving dolphins from tuna fishermen, right?" At his nod, she continued, "Well, our perp had to have known that because she was restrained with fishing net and killed with salt water." She extended the bagged evidence and autopsy report to him as proof.

The older man took the proffered evidence, glancing over it for a second before handing it back to Sara with a nod. "Makes sense. What about Marilyn Ellis?"

Warrick replied, "Well, she was restrained with nylons and killed with bleach. She was a housewife, right? It sort of fits."

Grissom said, "Well, I can see the bleach as a reflection of the killer's view on housewives – or homemakers, to use the more politically correct term – but nylons? That's not a common association."

Sara chimed in, "No, but Marilyn Ellis wasn't just any housewife. Er, homemaker," she amended with a grin. "Her husband was an executive vice president for a bank, and I'm sure she had to attend her fair share of society functions. Events which would, of course, require panty hose as part of the dress code. I think our perp knows these women pretty well, and he's telling us that."

Their boss nodded, dropping his gaze to the table and examining the pieces laid out there. "OK, guys, good pick-up. Keep working the evidence, and see if you can find anything else." He glanced down at the tox reports from the cases, and his eyes narrowed as he picked them up. Suddenly, he started toward the door, reports in hand. "See you around."

Confused, Sara and Warrick glanced at each other and, eyes trained on her supervisor's back, she called, "Um, Grissom? Are you going to bring those back?"

He stopped short and turned on his heel, glancing at the reports in his hand before meeting her eyes. "Yeah, in a little while."

Satisfied, she nodded and looked down at the Ellis autopsy report. Grissom watched her for a moment, and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly as he said, "Hey, Sara, I'll be back in an hour. We're going home on time tonight."

Her head snapped up at that, and her mouth dropped open in shock as she watched him leave. Her mind raced as she tried to comprehend his words but, try as she might, their meaning eluded her befuddled brain. Warrick's chuckle shook her out of her reverie, and she turned to stare at him.

Her dumbfounded expression only made him laugh out loud, and he shook his head as he told her, "Oh, man, that look on your face is priceless. I guess things must be going pretty well at Grissom's these days, huh?"

He bit his lip to prevent the laugh from escaping when her expression morphed into irritation. When she shook her head and looked back at the autopsy report, he shook his head with a grin before reaching for a new piece of evidence.

Suddenly, Sara reached across him for the Shea autopsy report, and he watched in surprise as she studied the two pages side by side. After what seemed an interminable interval, she looked up at him, eyes wide and jaw dropped open slightly. "Hey, War, wanna go with me to the locker room?"

Though her request did little to alleviate his confusion, he knew better than to argue. He simply nodded and followed her out of the room.

XXXXXXXXX

The concrete walls of the morgue, though they were intended to keep in the smells and sounds of the dead, performed the opposite feat for Al Robbins. They kept out the stench and noise of the living, freeing him from the politics and unpleasantness of life in the crime lab. Outside work, he cherished the time he spent with his wife and their children and grandchildren, and he even enjoyed the company of a few of his colleagues at the lab. But there was entirely too much insincerity and backstabbing among the majority of his coworkers, and he relished the fact that most of them stayed away from his domain unless they had a reason to be there.

He smiled as he increased the volume on the Bizet aria, the sweet strains of the music swelling to fill the cold hardness of the room with warmth and light. The soprano's honeyed voice tripped across intervals with an easy grace reserved for the best of musicians, and the emotions she conveyed with each note brought tears to his eyes as it evoked memories of the early days in his relationship with his wife, back when love was new and he couldn't imagine anything as beautiful as his Claire.

_It's funny how some things never change_, he thought as he wielded his scalpel expertly to make a perfect Y-incision on the young man lying on his table. _I still can't imagine anything more beautiful_. They had been together for 32 years now, had parented three children and now doted on seven grandchildren. And, though their love wasn't new anymore, it was still just as real as the day he married her.

He looked up from his inspection of the young man's abdominal cavity when he heard the door bang open, but his scowl turned to a smile when he recognized the man who had dared to intrude on his sanctuary. "Hey, Gil. Turn that down some, would you?" he requested, gesturing towards the CD player on the shelf to his right.

The scientist complied before walking around the table to face his friend, and the physician grinned at him. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Did you come to inspect my work?"

In no mood for small talk, Grissom shook his head and replied, "I came to ask you a question about these reports. Allison Shea's tox screen showed traces of fluoride in her system. Did you run that particular test in the Ellis case?"

Robbins' forehead wrinkled in confusion, but he shook his head emphatically. "No. I don't remember the first case you mentioned, but I'm assuming it's an older one. The generic tox screen these days doesn't include fluoride. It only incorporates the most common poisons, and fluoride got taken off the list a year or so ago because it was too unusual. Too hard for criminals to come by, I guess, since it's a gas," he shrugged. "They re-evaluate every few years or so and revamp the generic tox screen so that it includes the top twenty or so."

The CSI narrowed his eyes at the medical examiner. "Can you still do the test for fluoride?"

Robbins nodded. "Sure. It's a send-out lab that has to be ordered specifically, but you can get it if you want it."

"Good," Grissom replied. "Can you do that on Marilyn Ellis for me, please?"

"OK. I'll send it out this morning." The scruffy coroner squinted at Grissom as he asked, "Got a hunch?"

The scientist shrugged. "Maybe. Let me know when you get those results."

And, with that, he headed for the door, but he stopped dead in his tracks at the doctor's voice. "I hear a beautiful brunette's sleeping in your bed these days."

Slowly, a pallid Grissom turned to face him. The physician doubted the younger man could have looked more shocked if he had slapped him, and it took everything in his power to prevent the laugh from escaping. He allowed himself a small grin as he continued, "Sara, Gil. I'm assuming you're allowing her to stay in your guest bedroom and not forcing her to sleep on your pitiful excuse for a sofa."

The color gradually returned to Grissom's face, and his expression changed into a mixture of confusion and annoyance as he cocked his head slightly to the left. Raising one eyebrow, he sarcastically replied, "Is there a wiretap somewhere in the crime lab that I'm unaware of, Albert?"

The coroner laughed as he responded. "No, I just keep up with the juicy office gossip."

The CSI rolled his eyes and said, "Ah. I'm glad to know your information comes from a reliable source."

Robbins nodded with a smile and then cocked his head to the side with a curious expression. "Must be different having someone in your home. Are you OK with it?"

The physician watched in utter fascination as Grissom stared into space, his face softening considerably and transforming itself into an expression that was caught somewhere between wistfulness and joy. When the CSI met his eyes again, Robbins grinned. "You don't need to say a word. Your face says it all."

The younger man smiled as he turned to leave the room. The medical examiner shook his head with a grin as he shuffled over to the CD player. "Ah, _amoré_. Such a beautiful thing," he said aloud as he turned the knob to increase the volume on the opera. Bizet had never sounded more alive.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom's long strides took him quickly through the halls of CSI in search of Nick and Greg. He'd been wrapped up in the Shea and Ellis cases and hadn't checked on the two all evening. Feeling a little bad about abandoning them, he decided to find them and ensure that they were making progress before he and Sara left for home.

He heard them before he saw them. Greg's shrill voice echoed down the hall outside the breakroom. "C'mon, Nicky, just tell me what was in the bag!"

"No way, Greggo. If she wanted you to know, she would have told you."

When their boss stepped into the room, the two young men looked up from their coffee guiltily, and Nick said, "Hey, Grissom."

"Hey, guys," he responded, one eyebrow raised in question. "How's your case coming?" He looked at each of them in turn and, when they averted their gazes from his, he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Curious, he watched as they glanced up at each other before Nick answered his question.

"Um, pretty good. Just waiting on trace. We think the vic and his girlfriend had a fight out in the desert, and she shot him. Brass is bringing her in for questioning."

Their supervisor eyed them for a long moment, nearly laughing when they both squirmed uncomfortably under his scrutiny. Finally, he nodded and said, "OK. Keep me informed."

Nick exhaled gratefully and said, "Will do."

Grissom didn't see the two exchange looks as he turned and headed for his office, readying himself to face the wrath of Catherine. He glanced at his watch, glad to see that there were only twenty minutes remaining in their shift. With any luck, he could tell her to take off early, and all would be forgiven. And, if worst came to worst, he'd only have to sit through a twenty-minute tongue-lashing.

He took a deep breath before opening the door to his office, steeling himself for the onslaught. He was surprised to find the room empty, and he frowned slightly at the sight of a note lying on the desk directly in front of his chair. Shutting the door behind him, he walked slowly toward the note, approaching it cautiously as though it were an animal to be feared.

He opened it carefully, his eyes skimming over the large flowing cursive and a smile spreading slowly across his face as he read: "Grissom, considering how much you owe me for this, I didn't think you'd mind my leaving a few minutes early. Knowing you, I'm sure you were planning to let me go home early anyway rather than face the music. There were no matches to the Desert Palm OR waiting room in Allison Shea's records. And, yes, I did look through them all. You can tell me how much you love me next shift. See you then. Catherine."

The smile widened into a full-fledged grin when he read the postscript: "Oh, and don't think I won't collect. Like I said, you owe me. Big. Dinner-at-a-French-restaurant big. I'm looking forward to it. You can bring Sara, and I'll bring a date."

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the smile remained as he slipped the note into his pocket. He quickly dropped the phone records back into their respective evidence bags and packed his briefcase before locking his office and moving off down the hall. After a short stop at the evidence locker to drop off the phone records, he headed for the layout room.

When he arrived, he stood silently in the doorway, content to simply watch Sara for the briefest of moments. The mess had been cleared away, presumably safely back in the evidence locker where it belonged, and she and Warrick leaned against the table while they studied a case file before them. Grissom watched as she raised a slender hand to brush a strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind an ear, and he longed to discover whether the skin of her cheek was as soft as it appeared. With a swift shake of his head, he cleared his throat, partly to alert them to his presence and partly to drag his own dangerous thoughts back into a more professional arena.

When Sara looked up at him, he saw her face light up, and she graced him with a genuine smile. His breath caught in his throat, and he had to force himself to look at Warrick to regain his control. The younger man flashed him a knowing smirk, and he pursed his lips in annoyance. Glancing back at Sara, he couldn't quite meet her eyes as he asked, "You ready?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

"Yep," she replied, and he watched as she reached down to grab a plastic bag on the ground at her feet. He met her eyes with a questioning glance, but she ignored it as she closed the case file and tucked it under her arm. "See ya, War."

"You kids have a good time at home," he chuckled, earning a mildly irritated glare from both colleagues as they walked out the door. "Catch ya later, Agent Sidle," he muttered with a chuckle, but the quiet laughdied away quicklywhen he realized the implications of his comment. Warrick had to sidestep a startled Archie as he rushed down the hall toward the evidence locker.

**TBC…**


	18. The Truth Will Set You Free

**A/N: **A huge thank you to my newfound beta, Marlou. She was an enormous help with this chapter. So, if my writing is improved (hopefully!), it's all her doing! Any errors still contained herein are mine and mine alone.

Another quick reminder. I know it's been several months now (yeah, yeah, I need to stop being such a slacker, blah, blah, blah! :-)), but keep in mind that this story is set prior to the beginning of season 5. So think summer of 2004, though the exact time has never really been pinpointed. I do mention a couple of dates, and I didn't want there to be any confusion.

**Spoilers: **"Chaos Theory"

**Disclaimer: **Man, after "Snakes," I wish even more that _CSI:_ belonged to me. Come on, CBS, just a little piece? No? Aw, man! :-)

**Chapter 18: The Truth Will Set You Free**

Grissom breathed a sigh of relief as he pushed open the metallic door that led into the parking lot. It had been a long day and, while they had made a great deal of progress, it wasn't enough to satisfy him. And it wouldn't be enough until they had the sick individual who had threatened Sara safely behind bars – for good.

Without conscious thought, he pressed his hand more tightly against Sara's lower back, and she bit her lip to suppress the sigh that threatened to escape. He unlocked the Denali's door with the remote device and pulled open the passenger door, his hand automatically moving to her arm to help her inside. She opened her mouth to thank him, but he had already moved away, shutting the door after ensuring she was safely inside.

She kept her eyes on him as he crossed in front of the truck, his eyes busily scanning the partially full lot, hungrily searching for any sign of danger. After climbing inside and fastening his seat belt, he looked at her and visibly relaxed, and something about the sight warmed her all the way to her toes. She couldn't have stopped her smile if someone had held a gun to her head. _He really does care_. And, this time, she couldn't stop the sigh that poured forth from her very soul – a deep, contented sound that carried a wealth of emotions in its robust tone.

Hearing it, Grissom shot her a curious glance as he started the engine. "What?"

She smiled as she closed her eyes and rested her head back against the seat. "Nothing. Just glad to be going home." The remark intentionally contained multiple layers of meaning, but she was secure in the knowledge that he would never delve beyond the superficial.

"Me, too," he agreed, and she heard the smile in his voice.

"Mmm," she purred, her body slipping further into relaxation as the rhythmic vibrations of the truck's powerful engine were transmitted through the headrest directly her aching neck muscles. "Missed me that much, huh?" she teased.

He didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

Sara's eyes popped open, and she jerked her head up to fix him with an incredulous stare. "What?"

He glanced over at her, smirking a little at her stunned expression. "Does that surprise you?"

She narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Well…" She paused, unsure of the correct response. Finally deciding that honesty really is the best policy, she quietly replied, "Yeah, a little."

A sad expression crossed his face, and he drew in a slow breath before answering. "And _that_ doesn't surprise _me_." As they slowed to a stop at a red light, he turned his head to meet her gaze before he spoke his next words. "But I guess I've gotten used to having you around. And I miss you when you're not there."

Terrified of her reaction and even more ashamed of his own fear of it, he turned back to the road almost immediately – but not before Sara saw the emotions in his eyes. Feeling overwhelmingly satisfied with his admission, she watched in fascination as his ears tinged pink and the muscles in his jaw twitched sporadically. One corner of her mouth turned upward into a tiny smile, and she responded in a voice that was barely audible over the engine's hum. "I missed you, too."

The only indication that he heard her quiet statement was the slight upward curvature of the corner of his mouth, but it was enough, and Sara leaned back against the headrest with a soft smile on her own lips. She toyed with the perfect crease in her nylon slacks, wondering absently if she could have ironed the pants herself with the same mathematical precision that her dry cleaner apparently possessed.

Grissom glanced over at her shyly before turning onto the entrance ramp for the interstate, and it didn't surprise him that he was completely unsure of what his next words should be. He was fully aware of the significance of the moment that had just passed between them, but he had no idea how to pursue the conversation – or even whether he should. For all he knew, an in-depth discussion of their relationship was more than either of them could handle at the moment. _What do I do now_? Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he mentally berated himself for his glaring deficiencies in even the most basic of human interactions.

But Sara saved him, the cool fluidity of her voice a welcome oasis in the vast desert of his self-deprecation. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot to tell you." She reached down for the case file lying on the floorboard beside her feet as she continued, "We found the other case."

The shift in conversation was a little too sudden for Grissom. He looked at her in confusion for a moment, and she added, "The case I worked. The one the perp mentioned in the note. Remember?"

The additional details cleared the cobwebs from his brain, and he nodded at her with wide eyes before returning his gaze to the road, nonverbally encouraging her to elaborate.

She sighed. "I screwed up, Grissom. Serial killers usually kill within a certain gender and ethnic group, and they rarely deviate from their chosen type of victim. The two that we knew about were both Caucasian women, and I assumed that our perp was following the same mold." Her tone was apologetic, and he glanced at her in puzzlement. She smiled humorlessly and clarified, "When I told you about my unsolved cases, I only mentioned the women."

The light of understanding dawned in his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow as he looked over at her quickly. She shook her head, her anger at herself evident in her posture. "I can't believe I didn't pick up on it immediately. What kind of an investigator am I?"

"A human one?" he ventured, desperately wanting to ease her mind but having no idea how best to accomplish that in his currently uninformed state. He sighed when she fixed him with an icy glare. _OK, so apparently **that** wasn't the right way_. "Sara," he tried again. "Why don't you fill me in so that both of us are in the know?"

Her face softened, and she offered him a sad smile of contrition as she nodded. "Yeah." She ran slender fingers across the cool manila covering of the file, drawing courage from its familiarity as she braced herself for a conversation she had no desire to begin.

She took a deep breath and stared out the front windshield at some distant point straight ahead, forcing herself to emotionlessly relate case particulars she had long ago memorized. "Javier Ruiz, age 56. Found in his estranged wife's home in November 2003. Cause of death: Cardiac arrest due to injection of potassium chloride through the femoral vein. Loose restraints around his wrists. Just like our other victims," she added, her voice dropping to finish in a quiet whisper.

At the last statement, she bowed her head in defeat. Voicing the details aloud made it that much more obvious. She hated to fail – had _always_ hated it – but doing so in front of Grissom exponentially magnified the offense. She closed her own eyes, knowing the anguish of seeing the inevitable disappointment in his would be more than she could bear, and she waited for him to voice what they were both thinking. _Why didn't you see this before?_

When the words didn't come, she finally looked at him, surprised to see only compassion in his gaze when it momentarily flickered away from the highway and settled on her. He sighed as he turned back to face the road, and his voice was gentle as he spoke. "Sara, you're too hard on yourself."

She turned to look out the passenger side window, leaning her chin into her hand propped on the door handle and seeing more of a blur of passing scenery than any real detail. After a moment, she mumbled, "I ruled out evidence based on a faulty assumption."

"No, you didn't." Desperation to make her understand roughened his voice, and it came out harsher than he'd intended. He sighed when she stiffened noticeably and deliberately softened his words when he spoke again. "Your assumption was perfectly rational. It was even prudent. Sara, when we work a case, we don't chase every single person who might have had the opportunity to commit the crime. We don't have the time or the resources, so we have to make some assumptions about the most likely scenarios and start there. If that doesn't pan out, then we move on to the unlikely. Do you remember Paige Rycoff?"

She paused in her study of fuzzy vegetation long enough to lift one shoulder in silent acknowledgement of his question. Grissom had no idea whether the gesture was an affirmative response or a negative one, so he plunged ahead in his discourse. "Well, when she turned up missing, we started with suspects who lived near her or who knew her well – her dorm mates, the professor she was involved with – because they were the most likely culprits. Then, we moved on to her being the victim of a hit-and-run. When that didn't pan out, we considered what had actually happened: She leaned over the side of a dumpster that was clipped by a Jeep at exactly that moment, fatally injuring her. It was a highly improbable scenario, and we would never have logically begun there. Why would we? It was a million-to-one shot."

If he expected a verbal response, he was sorely disappointed. She simply continued to stare out the window, but he could tell by the gradual relaxation of her shoulders that he was reaching her. "See, that's the way science works, and you do it every day. This is no different. You started with a rational assumption that turned out to be incorrect. When you realized that, you discarded it. Do you really think I'd expect you to just spontaneously recall minute details of some case that happened nearly a year ago simply on the off-chance that it _might_ be related? Wouldn't that have been unreasonable of me?" When she didn't respond, he pressed quietly, "So why would you expect it of yourself?"

His gentle question brought her out of her reverie, and she turned her head slowly to face him. He glanced at her, conveying his concern with his eyes. Her face held an expression of mingled sadness, surprise, and gratitude and, after a long moment, she simply said, "Thanks."

He nodded, returning his attention to the interstate and noting that they were now only five exits from their destination. Sometimes he wondered why he had bought a place so far from work. On a good day, it took 45 minutes to reach the lab and, if there was any traffic at all, the drive stretched over an hour. But his townhouse was spacious and comfortable, the complex was secluded without being inconvenient, and his neighbors were quiet professionals who kept to themselves and allowed him to do the same. The view from his back patio was beautiful at worst and, on a crisp, clear winter morning, it was absolutely breathtaking. It was worth the drive. _And the best part is that I have somebody to share it with now..._

He shook his head a little to refocus his thoughts on something else, _anything _else. Something to keep his mind off of how much he enjoyed having Sara in his home. Anything that would make him forget how much he would miss her when she left. He cleared his throat and, in a steady voice that belied his true feelings, he requested, "So tell me more about the restraints."

She grinned in anticipation of his reaction to her next words. "Made of leather. Like those used in executions."

Grissom snapped his head toward her, and the hand that gripped the steering wheel mimicked the motion, causing him to veer slightly toward the right. Realizing his error, he rapidly returned his eyes to the road and corrected the vehicle's trajectory before looking over at her sheepishly. "Sorry." At her understanding nod, he continued, "Did you say executions?"

"Yes. And that's especially fascinating in light of the fact that Ruiz had retired from the Nevada Department of Corrections, where he worked for thirty years, including the last six as an executioner. Those restraints and the potassium injection are consistent with our theory that the killer's signature says something about his knowledge of the victim."

He nodded, lost in thought as his mind raced with possibilities. Three victims, one distinctive signature, and a killer with some sort of connection to Sara. He didn't like the way this equation was adding up. He looked up as they passed the exit to Woodrow Avenue and mentally recalculated. Four exits. Then she'd be home and safe. He barely noticed the ringing of her cell phone.

XXXXXXXXX

Brass guffawed loudly as O'Riley related a colorful description of his latest run-in with Sheila, the aging hooker who was more the department pet than a real troublemaker. The crew-cut-sporting cop shook his head as he blew on a steaming mug of coffee. "She just doesn't know when to quit."

His fellow detective nodded with a grin. "Ain't it the truth. She shoulda gotten out of the business a long time ago. But," he continued with a sigh, "I guess it's the only life she knows. Hard to leave that."

"True," O'Riley replied. "We just gotta keep an eye on Rocky, keep him from slapping her around." He drained the last of his java and looked around for their waitress, beckoning with his cup when he caught Doris' eye at the far end of the mostly empty diner.

She shot him a glare and snapped in a nasal voice that carried easily across the restaurant. "Keep your pants on, Buzz. I'll get to ya when I can."

Both men chuckled at that, and Brass turned to call out, "Aw, come on, Doris. We're some of Vegas' finest, ya know."

She snorted as she scooped up the full pot and carried it toward their table to fill their cups. "Oh, I know, honey. Why do you think I stay up-to-date with my practice at the shooting range?"

The two cops chortled, and Brass dramatically lifted one hand to his chest. "Oh, that hurt. You can't m-" His retort was interrupted by the sharp chirp of his phone. Pulling it from his coat pocket, he glanced at the caller ID hastily while Doris grabbed their check and began scribbling on the back. Recognizing the number immediately, he gestured with the phone and smirked as he told her, "Duty calls. I think I'll quit while you're ahead."

Her sarcastic response belied the fake smile she wore. "Wouldn't be the first time a man quit before I was satisfied."

His eyebrows rose so high they nearly met his receding hairline, and O'Riley choked on his coffee. The saucy waitress slapped the burly detective hard on the back before dropping their check on the table and stalking away to attend to a pair of beat cops seated nearby. Shaking his head and composing himself quickly, Brass pressed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. "Hey, Gil."

"Jim. You busy?"

Brass glanced across the table at his flushed companion, who was busily mopping his sweaty face with a napkin. "Not really. Me and Ray were just finishing up some breakfast at the diner. In between getting abused by the help, that is," he added more loudly, cocking an eyebrow at Doris as she sauntered past. He grinned when she scowled over her shoulder, skillfully balancing three heaping plates and a pot of coffee as she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "You haven't _seen_ abuse."

"Ah," Grissom replied knowingly. "Doris is treating you well then?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

The scientist chuckled. "You know, I think she's smitten with you."

"Sure, Gil," Brass retorted patronizingly. "I swear, you're the only friggin' person I know that uses the word 'smitten.' Look, did you have a reason for calling, or were you just hoping to add insult to injury?"

"Why can't I do both?" Grissom questioned with a laugh. At Brass' growl, he chuckled and told him, "Sara just spoke with Allison Shea's mother. She's willing to meet with us today. But she has to be at work at noon."

The cop frowned as he glanced at his watch. "That's only three hours from now."

"That would be the down side, yes."

Brass sighed as he glanced at O'Riley with an apologetic smile. "Fine. I'm leaving now, and I'll meet you there. What's the address?" After jotting down the information, the veteran detective grinned slyly and asked, "Sara coming with you?"

"Um, of course," the CSI replied slowly, and the confusion evident in his voice made Brass smile.

He stood to shrug into his coat, dropping some bills on the table and shifting the phone to his left hand before replying. "Good. I'm curious to find out whether double the smitten people doubles the fun. See ya in a few." He chuckled as he pressed the "End" button on Grissom's incensed stammering, and it grew into a full laugh at the sight of his companion coughing once more as he set his coffee cup down on the table. He reached over to lightly shove O'Riley's water in his direction. "Maybe you should stick to water, Ray. The hard stuff isn't agreeing with you this morning."

He waved as he headed for the door, grinning at the rude gesture his comment had earned.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara was surprised when Brass waved at them as they slowed to a stop in front of Miranda Shea's home. "How did he beat us here? We were only ten miles away."

Grissom followed her gaze to the veteran detective and politely raised a hand in greeting. He shrugged as he unbuckled his seat belt and pulled the key from the ignition. "He was at the diner. It's only seven miles."

She fixed his back with a disbelieving stare as he climbed down out of the SUV, but she quickly recovered her composure. She shook her head as she disengaged her own seat belt and descended from the vehicle. _It really shouldn't still surprise me that he knows random stuff like that_.

She leisurely strolled up the driveway toward the house and away from her colleagues, giving the two of them time to complete a somewhat animated conversation and allowing herself adequate space to thoroughly survey her surroundings. The neighborhood itself was much like any other – rather quieter than some, perhaps a little older than others. The Spanish influence on the architecture was unmistakable, and Sara's eyes settled on the stucco structure that had once been home to Allison Shea. A red roof crowned the tiny abode, and the spiky leaves of a yucca plant rose from the ground on the left side of the small porch. All in all, the house was older but obviously tidy and well-kept, and she instinctively felt that it reflected its owner.

As she drew nearer, the front door suddenly opened to reveal the object of her speculation. At first blush, Miranda Shea was ordinary. A middle-aged woman of average height and slightly above average girth, limp brown hair that had been pulled into a messy ponytail, and glasses that were far from stylish. But Sara could see beyond the surface mediocrity to the extraordinary that was visible underneath. There was something about Miranda's eyes. This woman had been through it all – and had survived.

And Sara admired her instantly. She took a deep breath and, after checking to be sure that her companions were advancing, she gestured toward them and began the introductions. "Hi, Mrs. Shea. I'm Sara Sidle from the crime lab. And these guys are Gil Grissom and Detective Jim Brass."

The woman flashed an exhausted half-smile and said, "Pleased to meet all of you. I've been waiting for you. Won't you come in?" She said the last as she retreated slightly into the house, holding the front door open for them to follow her inside. "Oh, and it's Miranda. Makes me feel old to have a title."

Once inside the comfortable living room, Miranda gestured toward the furniture with a shaky hand. "Please. Sit." Brass and Sara complied with the request, arranging themselves carefully on the overstuffed sofa. Grissom, on the other hand, moved to stand beside the mantle, leaning casually against it as he unabashedly surveyed the pictures that nested there. When it became obvious that he would remain rooted to that spot, Shea sighed and dropped into the only remaining seat, a worn cloth recliner, and asked the question that had obviously been on her mind. "Have there been any new developments in Kimmy's case?"

From his perch by the mantle, Grissom met Sara's shocked gaze, and Miranda picked up on it right away. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and her voice trembled slightly when she asked, "What is it?"

Brass watched the interchange, a cold sweat trickling slowly down his back at the mention of the name "Kimmy." There was no way it was a coincidence that this victim's name was Kimmy, and their killer had signed the note "Kim." But it would do none of them any good to panic a grieving mother. He took a deep breath and partially articulated his concern. "Um, ma'am, we were under the impression that your daughter's name was Allison."

The older woman visibly relaxed and even ventured a tiny smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. She'll always be Kimmy to me." Seeing Sara's befuddled expression, she explained further. "Her name was Kimberly Allison Shea, and I called her Kimmy ever since she was a little girl. When she got to high school, she decided it was _too_ little-girl-like and told everybody her name was Kim. But we all still called her Kimmy. She hated it."

Chuckling slightly at the memory, she continued, "She just looked like a Kimmy, I guess. She didn't understand why we all had such a hard time calling her something else. When she went to UNLV, she decided to make a clean break and just call herself by her middle name. But her old friends from high school were there, and the new people just learned from them. Finally, when she left to go to California, she officially changed her name to just Allison Shea. And the people there didn't know her as Kimmy, so she was Ally to them. But she's always Kimmy to me."

Sara didn't comment on Miranda's use of the present tense. The grief was self-evident but utterly understandable. She chose instead to redirect it. "Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm Kimmy?"

Miranda eyed the young CSI closely for a long moment, as if trying to discern the motivation behind the question. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she sighed and said, "I've already told the police a million times. Everybody loved her. I don't know anybody who would have wanted to kill her." Her voice cracked at the end, but she drew in a deep breath and stared at her hands in a Herculean effort to compose herself.

Grissom watched the interaction between the two women and marveled at the instant bond that seemed to form. When he saw the telltale sympathy on Sara's face, he spoke, directing himself in a compassionate voice to Miranda Shea. "Mrs. Shea, could you tell me about these pictures?" He had no idea whether his main motivation was to familiarize himself with as many of Ally Shea's acquaintances as possible or to distract Sara from the horrors of this case. And he was no longer sure there was a difference.

Sara looked up at him then, and the sight of the glittering tears in her eyes shot straight to his heart and forced him to look away. Miranda smiled bitterly and rose to come stand beside him. Taking the gold-framed photo from his hand, she chuckled at the picture, gesturing for Sara and Brass to come and see.

They obliged and were rewarded with a photograph of two smiling girls flanking a wiry teenaged boy in thick glasses. Oversized sunglasses were perched atop his head, and the girls were each kissing one of his reddened cheeks. They were obviously at some amusement park, and Sara grinned at the flustered look on the boy's face. She was absolutely certain it was the same expression a teenaged Grissom would have worn in a similar situation. The idea made her giggle.

Pleased at her reaction, Miranda smiled. "That's Kimmy on the right. The other two were her best friends in high school, Courtney and Byron." Her face grew wistful as she continued, "I haven't seen either one of them in years. Courtney moved out east somewhere. Byron went to UNLV with Kimmy, but he hasn't come around for a long time."

Sara could sense the hurt in the older woman, and she touched her lightly on the arm, just a small gesture of support to let her know she wasn't alone. Miranda shook her head and replaced the picture on the shelf, quickly reaching for another. She smiled as she held it out so that the group could see. "Kimmy and her sorority sisters."

Sara smiled widely at the picture of a group of young women in T-shirts and shorts surrounded by automobiles. Many of them held buckets or hoses, and it was apparent they were having a car wash. Everyone was smiling, and the good humor in the photo was pervasive. Even Grissom smirked as he stared at it.

Miranda reached for one more photo from the mantle, staring longingly at it for a moment before sighing and turning to face her audience. After shooting Sara a sad smile, she held out the picture. "Kimmy and Jeremy."

The young CSI nodded and took the proffered snapshot, studying it thoughtfully for a moment before questioning, "Did you like Jeremy?"

The older woman met her eyes quickly, seeming to know what she was getting at. She nodded. "Yes." The statement was emphatic in its simplicity. "He loved my daughter, and that was enough for me." She looked back down at the photo, taking it gently from Sara's grasp. "He calls every now and then just to see how I'm doing. He hasn't forgotten her."

Sara studied her for a long moment before she came to a decision. "Miranda, thank you for speaking with us. I can promise you that we will do everything in our power to find the person responsible for this. And I am so sorry for your loss." Surprised, Grissom raised one eyebrow but didn't argue. The older woman had responded well to Sara, and he found it hard to question the results. They would be leaving with much more insight into their killer than they had when they walked in.

Miranda nodded and, after replacing the picture lovingly back in its place of honor on the mantle, she led the way to the door. Sara held back, motioning for Grissom and Brass to precede her out the door. But, halfway outside, Grissom turned and cocked his head to one side. "Miranda, did Kimmy have any friends who worked at Desert Palm?"

The woman blinked in surprise for a second before her brow wrinkled in concentration. After a long moment, she replied, "I don't think so. Why?"

Not wanting to raise her hopes with evidence that had not been put into context, he shook his head with a sad smile. "Just trying to explore every avenue."

He didn't expect her to accept it, but she seemed to understand. She nodded and turned to Sara. Her voice was warm when she told her, "Thank you. For everything."

The younger woman, a little taken aback, could only nod. Awkwardly, she clasped Miranda's hand and repeated her earlier promise. "We'll do everything we can."

She heard the door shut behind her, and she walked to the Denali without looking back. Brass told them he was heading home, but she hardly heard him, barely even acknowledged the sound of his engine roaring to life as she climbed into the truck. She heard Grissom settle into the seat, and suddenly an overwhelming fatigue was upon her. She wanted to go home. Grissom's home. Her home. They were one and the same now. And that realization scared her a little. More than a little.

She suddenly became aware that they were no longer moving, and she glanced out the windshield to find that they were in a park. Obviously still in the same neighborhood because there was stucco everywhere. And Grissom was staring at her. Finally, she rolled her eyes to look at him. "What?"

He shook his head but kept his eyes fixed on her. "Just wanted to make sure you're OK."

She smiled but only slightly. "Yeah. Just zoned out for a minute. Thinking." Unable to tolerate the continued scrutiny, she stared out through the windshield. Searching for something, anything, that she could use as a conversation starter. Anything that would take his eyes away from her. "I have _never_ understood why anyone in their right mind would buy a house made of stucco."

And that did it. The disdainful comment was met with utter silence, and an uncomfortable realization grew in her with each passing second. In her peripheral vision, she could see that he was staring straight ahead, jaw set harshly in a rigid line of tightly clenched muscles. After a seemingly interminable period, she at last screwed up the courage to venture cautiously, "Oh, God. You grew up in a stucco house, didn't you?" She forced herself to face him, despite the hot blush that had flared on her cheeks.

"No." She watched in surprise as the jaw muscles slowly relaxed into a grin that spread across his face and, when it reached its widest point, he turned his head in her direction. "But I had you going, didn't I?"

She stared at him, speechless. He had joked with her more in the last three days than in the previous three years, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. She definitely enjoyed this side of him, but she wasn't absolutely convinced that she trusted it. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, contemplating her own thoughts – and his. _What's going on in that head of yours, Gil Grissom_?

When her prolonged silence began to make him uncomfortable, he feared the worst, shooting her a nervous glance as the grin rapidly faded. Finally, unable to bear the quiet any longer, he asked, "What?"

"I'm just wondering who you are and what you've done with my supervisor."

He wanted to laugh, but her voice was deadly serious, and the underlying question came through loud and clear. He sighed, debating how he could best answer her. She deserved the truth, but their complicated past demanded that he tread gently – for both their sakes. Small doses of honesty were about as much as he could mete out. "I didn't like him much. Decided that he probably shouldn't come back."

He had no idea what her response to that would be, but it was the best he had to offer at present. He hoped against hope for her understanding. What he got was even better. Complete acceptance. "_I_ liked him. Why didn't you?"

He stared at her, incredulous. "You _liked _that cantankerous old fool?"

She rounded on him, angry and ready to defend the man she loved. Until it occurred to her that she would be defending him _to_ the man she loved. Her face softened into a tender smile, and she responded gently, "Yeah, I liked him. I mean, I like you, too, but he was…"

Her voice trailed off, and he watched in amazement as a host of emotions flitted across her face in rapid succession. She stared into space somewhere over his right shoulder for a fleeting moment before her eyes refocused on him. "I just knew what to expect from him. Maybe he wasn't all that sensitive, or even very consistent, but at least he was consistently _in_consistent, you know?" She laughed at her own absurdity. "Maybe I'm not making any sense. I don't know…" She paused and drew in a deep breath before continuing, her gaze locked on his. "But I definitely liked him. From the moment we met."

Grissom drank deeply from her eyes and wondered vaguely if it were possible to read a woman's mind simply by paying attention when she opened her eyes to you. If so, he could surely read Sara's. She was as unguarded as he'd ever seen her, and he felt compelled to reciprocate. He stared into the chocolate depths, willing her to understand what he couldn't bring himself to say. His fear, his cowardice, his desperation, his loneliness, his vulnerability. And his love. Mostly his love. If she only understood one thought he'd ever had, he wanted it be that one.

**TBC…**


	19. Cuts Like a Knife

**A/N:** My undying gratitude to Marlou, my incredible beta. Thank you! Any continued errors in this chapter should be attributed to me and me alone.

Huge shout-out to MackenzieW, my lone reviewer for chapter 18! But now it's begging time. Only one review, so I must be doing something wrong here. How can I know what it is if you don't tell me? Pretty please? With sugar on top? I promise, I take constructive criticism well. Just ask Marlou. I haven't yelled at her or anything. Well, not yet anyway. -)

**Spoilers:** "Play with Fire," "Butterflied"

**Disclaimer: **This disclaimer brought to you by the letters I, O, and U. I only wish it was brought to you by C, S, and I. -)

**Chapter 19: Cuts Like a Knife**

From somewhere amidst the distant memories of a Catholic upbringing, he could dimly recall the Biblical account of Joshua leading the Israelites into battle while God Himself caused the sun to stand still for an entire day as they fought. And Grissom vaguely wondered if the Almighty had done it again.

For time had indeed stopped. He was lost, utterly transfixed by her eyes. He couldn't remember ever looking into them this deeply before. Then, again, he couldn't remember much of anything at all.

His mind was not functioning in its normally logical manner. His powers of observation were certainly intact, and quite possibly keener than they ever had been. He heard the tiny hitch in her breathing in perfect synchronicity with his own ragged breaths, he smelled the faintest hint of a juniper fragrance as it wafted off her skin, he saw the golden flecks embedded in her chocolate irises that made her eyes appear to expand and contract and never give the same pattern twice.

But, while the sensory observations were coming fast and furious, the electricity emanating from Sara's eyes had short-circuited his typically analytical mental processes and rerouted his brain onto a decidedly more emotional path. He hadn't exactly lost the capacity for conscious thought, but it certainly seemed impaired at the moment. The vague notion that Sara must have some sort of bewitching powers, that she was some kind of modern-day Medusa, presented itself fleetingly as a valid idea but was gone before his overtaxed brain could process it as such. He barely had the opportunity to hope she wouldn't turn him to stone.

What he _could_ do – and probably more intensely than at any prior moment in his life – was feel. He felt everything – in polar opposites. There was pain, and there was pleasure. There was agony, and there was ecstasy. And there was heartrending sorrow. But, on its heels, there was an unadulterated joy so overwhelming that it threatened to consume him, so torrential that he feared he would be swept away on a raging flood of chocolate waves with golden flecks.

And, borne of the bliss that seemed to permeate his very soul, came a longing so painfully sweet that he could no more have stopped himself from fulfilling it than he could have stopped the sun from rising. He ached to touch her, to feel her skin under his, if only for a moment. And so he reached out to reverently graze the tips of his fingers against her cheek, his touch so light it was barely there. But Sara felt it and leaned into his hand, her eyes slowly closing at his caress.

And, as the circuit of their gazes was broken, so was the spell. He could think again. But all he could think was that he wanted to go back to feeling. And he reached his fingers around to grip the back of her neck and pull her towards him, leaning in slowly until his lips finally – finally – met hers.

Staggering emotion. Pure elation. Indescribable pleasure. Those were the words he would later use to characterize that instant, but they were all so pitifully inadequate to explain what he _felt_. Despite a vocabulary that any wordsmith would envy, Gil Grissom had always found it difficult to express his own emotions. Thus, he had developed the habit of borrowing the words of others for the task. But, today, even the poetry of the Bard himself seemed woefully insufficient.

Sensations flooded his synapses from every direction, but his sluggish thought processes could only handle one at a time, storing the rest for more thorough assessment later. Sara's lips under his own were soft and surprisingly willing, and the shock of his kiss had left her mouth slightly open, granting him easy access.

He tilted his head and deepened the kiss automatically, prompting a barely audible whimper from her. But it was enough, and he emitted his own deep groan in response. At the sound, she reached up to place a hand on either side of his face, pulling him toward her hungrily and stroking the soft whiskers for just a moment before gently ending the kiss.

She leaned her forehead against his with her eyes closed, knowing she was hiding but unsure what she was hiding _from_. His rejection… or his acceptance. And it was that very confusion that pushed her into action.

Hating it even as she did so, she forced herself to pull away, and her mutinous body fought her every step of the way. Seemingly of their own accord, her fingertips trailed slowly over his beard in the path of retreat, sending tiny shockwaves of pleasure down her spine.

When her hands were finally free from the dangerous territory of Grissom's face, she opened her eyes to look at him, feeling more like some objective third-party than an active participant. His eyes were closed, impossibly long lashes splayed across his cheeks like the wings of a butterfly. She watched his chest heave as he struggled desperately to bring his erratic breathing under control. The whole situation was surreal, as though she'd entered some alternate universe where the man she had wanted forever kissed her like he wanted her, too.

But it was the continued jolt of electricity generated by his hand against her cheek that brought her fully back to reality, and she shied away from his touch as if it burned. Her flinch shook Grissom from his reverie, and he opened his eyes and reluctantly raised them to hers.

Only to meet his fears headlong. Her face was pure bewilderment, and her voice was edged with reproach as she asked, "What was that?"

He cocked his head to the side, slightly mystified as to how he should respond to a question with such an obvious answer. Then again, maybe hewas more out of practice than he thought. "Um… I, uh… k-kissed you," he managed to stammer.

She glared at him, her confusion rapidly transforming into anger. "Yeah, I realize _that_, Grissom," she spat. "What I don't really get is – why?"

"Sara…" He swallowed hard as he stared at her, and even the memory of her mouth under his couldn't prevent the icy fingers of fear that now gripped his heart. The clear and honest answer was… he had wanted to. Probably more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. And he didn't regret a second of it. He was convinced that the memory alone could sustain him for the rest of his life. It was the one time in his lonely existence that he had ever acted on pure emotion, and the reward had been far beyond anything he could have ever imagined. But telling her that would be more of a revelation than either of them could handle. _Well, certainly beyond what **I **can_, he thought bitterly. He heaved a defeated sigh as he shifted in his seat and reached to turn the key in the ignition. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, and the resignation in his tone only fueled Sara's fury.

"You're sorry!" she asked, and her voice was filled with incredulous frustration. "Yeah, you are." The sarcasm dripped from her words as she turned to face the front windshield and angrily tugged the seat belt more tightly around herself. When he didn't respond, she continued agitatedly, "I don't _believe_ you, Grissom. I mean, I distinctly recall being turned down in no uncertain terms when I asked you to have dinner with me. You said no like it was the most ridiculous idea you'd ever heard."

He winced in response but said nothing. He had replayed that scene in his mind so many times that he felt almost outside of it now. He had analyzed it from every angle in his own private theater, but he still hadn't figured out how it could have gone differently. The only thing he knew was that what he had _wanted_ to say and what he had _needed_ to say were at opposite extremes.

She sighed at the silence, her anger slowly trickling away and leaving only fatigue in its wake. Keeping her eyes studiously fixed on the road ahead, she told him, "Then I watched you lay it all on the line for a suspect accused of killing a woman who looked like me. It wasn't that hard to see it wasn't just a ploy to get him talking. And you made it pretty plain to anyone observing that, even though you might have wanted to, you just _couldn't do it_."

She heard his sharp intake of breath and, whether it was from her emphasis on his exact words or the revelation that she'd been an eyewitness, she couldn't be sure. Regardless, she ignored it as she plunged ahead. "So you'll forgive me if I don't really get this, Grissom. I'm not quite understanding the leap of logic that led you from 'I don't know what to do about this' and 'I couldn't do it' to kissing me senseless in some random parking lot."

Sara closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat. She expected to feel pain, or satisfaction, or anger, or… something. But, in actuality, she just felt drained. And very numb. Some distant part of her brain wondered when she'd feel the pain of the gaping hole in her heart, but mostly she just didn't care.

"You don't trust me."

His quiet comment was a statement, not a question and, for some reason, that hit a nerve. She snapped her head up to glare at him. "Not with my heart."

One four-word statement for another. And it was gratifying to watch the way he squinted his eyes slightly in reaction to her words, to see that he felt it. _Good. I **want **him to feel it_.

She tried to hold on to the anger that sustained her, but it seeped away as her eyes wandered over the features of a profile she knew better than she should. The lines around his eyes that deepened during the bad cases. The jaw that squared when he stood strong for his convictions. The mouth that she could still taste… _Not going there_, she reprimanded herself. But the only feeling that remained now was fatigue, and she sighed deeply as she leaned her head back against the seat once more.

She was silent for a long time, and he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. When she finally broke the silence, it was in a voice so soft that it was barely more than a whisper. But her words might as well have been shouted from the top of the MGM Grand for all their resonance in his battered soul. "I can't trust you with that, Grissom. It hurts too much."

With her eyes closed, she couldn't see him blink back the pain from the gaping hole in his own heart.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara awoke with a start when the Denali's engine ceased its rhythmic drone. She had managed to fall asleep on the ride to his townhouse, a fact that surprised her. Sleep had been elusive since her late teens, and her body had long ago adapted to the constant deprivation. But she refused to allow herself to speculate on why slumber had been so easy to come by for the last few days, and she gave her head a quick shake as she reached for the bag and case file at her feet. Without so much as a glance at her companion, she quickly unbuckled her safety belt and exited the SUV.

"Sara, wait." She was taken aback by the ferocity in his voice, and it didn't occur to her to disobey. He was at her side in an instant, his eyes flashing angrily. "Don't do something foolish just because you're angry with me. You're here so I can protect you; let me do that."

She bit back her scathing reply because his voice had changed during the last sentence, had softened so that he was nearly pleading, and she could only nod in response. He gave her a grateful smile and lifted his eyes to survey the parking lot.

He didn't touch her as they walked towards the building, but he remained close, and his eyes constantly skimmed their surroundings in his search for threats. But, far from being comforting, it only served to confuse her more. When Grissom finally unlocked his front door and moved to the side to allow her to pass, she brushed by him briskly, heading directly for the guest room and barely breaking stride when she heard his voice from behind her. "Hey, Sara? I'm going to take a shower. Just in case you need me."

_I won't_. Instead of giving voice to the bitterness, she responded brusquely, "OK. Thanks." And, without another word, she walked into the bedroom and closed the door quietly behind her. But that was as far as she got because the click of the door latch sounded so eerily final and, for whatever reason, she suddenly couldn't stem the flow of tears that had been building for what seemed a lifetime.

The briny trickles ran down her cheeks in parallel streams, but her emotions poured forth in merciful silence. Slowly, she leaned back against the door and allowed herself to slump to the ground, a puddle of miserable humanity dripping sorrow onto the hardwood floor of unfeeling reality. The salt burned the sensitive skin of her face, but it was a healing pain, and she reveled in the feel of it.

XXXXXXXXX

Grissom ducked his head under the scalding spray, wincing at the pain but forcing himself to remain in place, welcoming the burn of the water on his skin. His concentration on the physical discomfort helped to drown out the greater hurt from the sting of Sara's words. But the hot water was punishing in its own right, and he found that he was comforted by the penance.

As the stream flowed through his hair and over his neck, he allowed her diatribe to replay in his mind. _"… recall being turned down"… "… you just couldn't do it"… "… hurts too much"… "… leap of logic…"_ He nearly laughed at the bitter irony of it all. How fitting that, now that he had finally worked up the courage to face his fears and pursue his dreams, it was Sara who was pushing _him_ away.

He sighed as he mulled over her words. The phrase "leap of logic" kept repeating itself in his head; it resonated with him in a troublesome sort of way, and it took a moment to understand why. And then it hit him. While kissing her had merely been the next stage in a very logical progression for him, Sara hadn't been privy to his inner thoughts. She didn't understand that he had merely taken another step along a path that began when Brass had deposited her in his living room – no, wait, this journey had begun long before that in a lecture hall in northern California when his eyes had first landed on a lanky brunette with a gap between her teeth. Regardless of where it started, he didn't want it to end with her angry monologue in the cab of a company-owned SUV. Not over something as silly as a simple lack of communication.

_Star-cross'd lovers_, he thought, and the quote made him smile. Comparing his relationship with Sara to that of two fictitious teenagers in ancient Italy was probably high on everyone's list of "just wrong" – including his own. But, on some level, it rang true. While he was admittedly far inferior to Romeo in his ability to express himself, he couldn't help but identify with the boy's struggles for his true love. _"With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls/For stony limits cannot hold love out."_ Stony limits, indeed. It was high time he o'er-perched.

Decision made, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, allowing the water to course over his face and throat, washing away his transgressions. The steaming liquid flowed freely over his cheeks until it reached the edges of his beard, where it collected in great droplets that eventually hit the porcelain floor with a resounding splash. And the hindrance to his purification bothered him on some fundamental level. He slid open the shower door to reach for his razor.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara knew she should probably feel awkward about rummaging through the contents of Grissom's refrigerator, but she didn't. She was hungry and, at the moment, that particular need sort of overrode all else – including the trepidation she felt at viewing various dishes of God-knows-what and multiple cardboard cartons she was relatively certain did not contain leftover Chinese food. She was thankful he had cleared space to give her the entire bottom drawer when they had come back from the grocery store yesterday. And she was even more grateful that the drawer had previously only contained produce and not anything… growing.

She carefully arranged the root beer Nick had picked up for her into the back of the drawer before pulling out a container of yogurt and a banana. Regardless of how angry the man made her, the fact remained that Grissom had opened his home to her and had been willing to protect her. That had to count for something. The least she could do was make him his first root beer float. _But not today_, she thought with a rueful smile as she shoved the drawer closed. _I can't deal wi-_

"Sara."

She jumped guiltily at the voice and slammed the refrigerator door much harder than necessary before turning to face him quickly. "Hey, Gri-"

The comment died on her lips, and her mouth fell open when she saw his face. Grissom with wet hair and a towel around his shoulders would have been more than enough to derail her train of thought. But this was Grissom with wet hair, a towel, and… a goatee. _Oh. My. God. Can't. Breathe_.

He was looking at her strangely, and she suddenly realized that she hadn't spoken in quite some time. Swallowing hard against an abruptly Sahara-dry mouth, she managed to croak, "Hey," and her voice sounded odd even to her own ears. She felt a little dizzy and hoped, somewhat irrationally, that she wouldn't embarrass herself by fainting.

He cocked his head to the side as he regarded her, and she watched in fascination as an unruly curl lying against his forehead shifted a bit, leaving a solitary water droplet in its former home. The liquid began a path down his forehead and had almost reached the bridge of his nose before he reached up to brush it away, glancing down at its misshapen form on his fingers before wiping them on his robe. He looked back up at her then and said, "We need to talk."

She couldn't find it within herself to resist and wasn't sure she wanted to anyway. Some deeply buried part of her wanted – no, _needed_ – to hear what he had to say and to say some things herself. This conversation had been a long time coming, and she willingly obeyed as he led the way into the living room and gestured for her to take a seat on the sofa.

Out of respect for her feelings, Grissom seated himself in the armchair, bracing his elbows against his knees as he looked at her. He drank in the sight of Sara seated sideways on his couch, one leg drawn up underneath her and one bent at the knee with her arms wrapped around it. She rested her cheek against that knee and looked at him, clearly waiting on him to initiate their discussion. And it was the very sight of her looking so completely at home there that gave him the courage to continue.

"Sara, I'm not really an eloquent man," he began.

He had dropped his eyes to his hands, and so her loud scoff startled him. He looked up at her then, and the honest effort she saw in his gaze made her sorry for her irate response. He didn't deserve that, and she really needed to change her attitude and give him a chance. Contritely, she apologized. "I'm sorry. Really." And, with open hands, she gestured for him to continue.

"It's OK," he replied, and his look of relief was rather endearing. "I guess I deserved that." He smiled self-deprecatingly and looked back at his hands, clenched together in a tight grip that nearly turned the knuckles white. "Um, I, uh…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. This was even harder than he'd ever imagined – and he always knew it would be the most difficult thing he ever had to do.

Suddenly, he needed to move, and he pushed himself out of the chair, pacing across the living room and back as Sara watched in a wide-eyed wonder that he could see from the corner of his eye. He brought one big hand up to sweep it across his face and found himself drawing strength from his own clean-shaven cheeks. He didn't know why, but the smoothness of his face made him feel lighter, and he wondered if he'd been fitted with love's light wings. He smiled at the thought as he turned to face her.

"Sara, this is going to sound like it's coming out of left field, but just bear with me for a minute, OK?" When she nodded, he smiled gently and drew in a breath before continuing. "When I was a senior in high school, I tutored other students in math and science so that I could earn extra money for college."

She nodded, remembering how she'd done the same and trying not to extend the implications of that beyond the purely factual.

"Well, you already know I was a weird kid. Or unusual, or whatever," he added hastily. "But the word applied most often was 'weird,' so I'm going with that one. Anyway, one of my students was this girl named Sharon Palomb. Very popular, cheerleader, dating the quarterback. Pretty clichéd, now that I look back on it." He forced a grin, but she could see that there was more to the story, and her stomach twisted a bit at the pained look in his eyes.

He looked past her now, his gaze fixed on some point in the distant past as he spoke softly. "I was completely infatuated with her. Just a crush, I guess, but it felt _real_. So when she told me that she had broken up with her boyfriend and proceeded to ask _me_, this weird kid who had never even been on a date, to go to the senior prom with her…" He refocused on the present, his eyes locked on Sara's as he continued. "…well, let's just say I wasn't at my most eloquent then either, but she got the basic gist of my acceptance."

She chuckled, picturing a teenaged Grissom stammering over something as simple as the word "yes." The mental image was vivid and clear and meshed perfectly with the uncomfortable man she saw before her now. It somehow made her feel better to know that he had always been like this.

He watched her face for a moment, comforted by the sight, before he sighed and returned to the narrative. "So I bought my tux out of the tutoring money, and I'd never been so excited about anything in my life. And I went to her house and pinned the corsage on her and drove her to the prom in my mother's Buick. And, when I walked in there with this beautiful girl on my arm, I was not 'that weird kid' anymore. I was Gil Grissom, man to be envied."

Her mind raced as she mentally calculated that he would have been attending a prom sometime in the mid-1970s. She smiled sweetly, envisioning Grissom in something powder-blue and hideous, with tousled curls and a shy grin. And she could picture him with his head held high and his chest puffed out as he walked into a roomful of adolescent boys as though he were the cock of the walk. The thought was certainly amusing.

His resumed pacing drew her attention to him once more, and he ran his hand across the back of his neck roughly before he spoke again. "It was a little ironic that her boyfriend Chuck was one of those who envied me. Then again, I didn't know until we got there that the whole thing was just a ruse to make him jealous. See, I'm not really as bright as everybody seems to think," he chuckled bitterly.

Weariness seemed to overtake him then, and he dropped heavily into the recliner, leaning his head back and closing his eyes before continuing in a soft voice. "I remember Chuck practically dragging me outside when he saw us together. I thought he was going to beat me up, and I remember being scared that he would. But he just told me to stay away from his girl. I think his exact words were, 'A loser weirdo like you will never get a girl like Sharon. You'll be lucky to get any woman. They tend to stay away from freaks.'" His voice was as defeated as she'd ever heard it when he added, "Chuck was a big guy, and I was kind of scrawny back then. I got off easy."

She felt his hurt so acutely that it didn't surprise her to feel the sharp prick of tears just behind her eyes. He could just as well have avoided prefacing Chuck's harsh quotation with "I think"; it was obvious enough that he had long ago memorized the words, and they had been a part of him ever since. And hearing him downplay the impact the incident had on him, as though temporary physical pain would have been worse than a lifetime of mental anguish, drove a dagger into her heart.

She stared at him, drinking in his every feature and committing it to memory. This was huge. So huge she didn't know what to do with it. This one revelation explained so much about the man he was that she nearly crumbled under the weight of her own myriad thoughts. She watched as he repeatedly clenched and relaxed one large fist, his body fighting desperately to release some of its pent-up tension. And she knew what she had to do.

Slowly, she unfolded herself from her position on the couch and knelt beside the recliner. His eyes were still closed, and she watched him carefully as she covered his clenched fist gently with her hand. At her touch, he snapped his gaze to hers and held it for a long moment before breathing out, "Sara…"

"Shh…" she soothed, running her thumb across his knuckles until he gradually opened his hand to hers. When his palm was relaxed before her, he entwined his fingers with her own as he studied her intently. She continued to hold his gaze, willing him to understand her unconditional acceptance and the sheer depth of her feelings for him. She watched as his eyes darted over her face, seeking the answer to some unknown question. And whatever he saw there must have satisfied him, for she saw his eyes soften and felt his fingers relax a few moments later.

She offered him a tentative smile and squeezed his fingers before pulling her hand away and getting to a standing position. But the smile faded quickly when she glanced back at him and saw the abject fear on his face. And then she realized it was her leaving that had caused it. _He thinks I'm rejecting him. No, Grissom. Never_. "Hey," she said, reaching down to brush a hand across his hair and smiling when he closed his eyes at her touch. "I'll be right back, OK?"

She waited until he looked at her and nodded, his eyes wide and childlike, before she pulled her hand away and left the room. Her heart contracted and, in that moment, she was sure she would never see a sight more adorable than the one she had just witnessed.

Grissom's kitchen was only steps from his living room, but the breakfast bar was positioned in such a way that he wouldn't be able to see into it from his seat in the recliner. Assured of her privacy, she moved stealthily into the room and began a determined search for dishware.

To his credit, he didn't pry into her actions but merely allowed her free rein in his household. And, for some reason, that endeared him to her even more. Suddenly, nothing in her life seemed more important than this and, having completed her task, she walked triumphantly into his living room bearing two frosted mugs. She gave him a full gap-toothed smile when he looked up at her curiously, and he returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm. But, when she held out a mug to him, he stared at her in astonishment, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing as his gaze shifted back and forth between her and the glass. Finally, he blurted, "Sara, what is this?"

Feigning innocence, she nonchalantly replied, "Haven't you ever seen a root beer float?" When he gaped at her open-mouthed, she simply shrugged and said, "What? I had a craving." Her well-deserved reward was his toothy grin before he scooped up a heaping tablespoonful of root beer-flavored ice cream.

**TBC…**


	20. The Deep Burn of Truth

**A/N: **OK, three things. #1: I'm very sorry for the length of time between updates. Writer's block sucks. The only thing that kept me going was the wonderful reviews. Which brings me to… #2: Thank you. You have no idea how much those reviews meant! Every single one of them brightened my day. And, finally, #3: I've done the best I can to research the topic but, considering I'm not a biologist or a zookeeper, please forgive me if there are mistakes regarding Komodo dragons. :-)

**Spoilers: **"Sex, Lies, and Larvae," "Fahrenheit 932," "Burden of Proof"

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, as if.

**Chapter 20: The Deep Burn of Truth**

Grissom brought one last spoonful of root beer float to his mouth and slowly savored the creamy chill on his tongue before swallowing. Keeping his head judiciously lowered, he cautiously glanced up at his companion seated haphazardly on his coffee table. Her attention was focused on her own half-full mug, affording him the opportunity to gaze at her unnoticed.

He studied her, furtively absorbing all he could from the unguarded moment. He allowed his eyes to wander, noticing the delicate fingers that clasped the metal spoon and the graceful legs crossed in an unrepentant display of femininity and the wooden table that seemed so ancient and so desperately unworthy to hold her.

_Just like me_, he thought as he dropped his eyes to his mug. It was funny how the furniture was so much like its owner. Old and common and not much to look at. And so very undeserving of the beauty that now graced its presence.

He sighed quietly, not enjoying and certainly not needing his brain's constant reminders of why he wasn't good enough for her. Forcing away the negative thoughts, he focused instead on the ounce of melting ice cream left in the bottom of his cup and lifted it to his mouth to finish off the final sip.

The movement caught Sara's attention, and she surreptitiously watched as he tilted his head back to drain the contents of his mug. And she was surprised to find herself completely mesmerized by the moment, her gaze taking in the neck muscles that moved with each swallow and the strong fingers wrapped around the glass handle and the frosted mug that seemed so impenitent and so blatantly mocking of her emotions.

She'd been envious before – of friends with loving relationships, of women with easier access to Grissom's attentions, even of the insects that demanded so much of his time. But never – not _once_ – had she felt that particular emotion towards an inanimate object. The very idea was so ludicrous that it bordered on insanity. Yet she found herself wishing with all that was within her that she could be that mug.

Because it would mean she'd feel his lips again.

When he finally lowered the glass, it shook Sara from her reverie, and she dropped her eyes lest he see the thoughts plainly written there. She fidgeted idly with her spoon, its metallic clink against the thick glass making a tinny sound. Casually, she glanced up at Grissom as he licked the remains of an ice cream mustache off his upper lip and smiled when he left a tiny bit behind.

"You have some, um…" She gestured slightly to the corner of his mouth, not wanting to embarrass him with words but knowing he'd be mortified if she didn't tell him.

"Hm?" Confusion clouded his features, and she pointed to the corner of her own mouth to clarify.

"You have some ice cream right here."

"Oh," he replied, his face reddening slightly. He reached up to swipe the back of his hand roughly across his upper lip but, in mimicking the mirror image she presented to him, he chose the wrong corner.

Exasperated by their seemingly endless penchant for miscommunication, Sara said, "No, here." And, without further thought, she reached out to wipe away the ice cream with her thumb. It wasn't until her fingers inadvertently brushed against his goatee that she realized her mistake. She hadn't anticipated the sudden electric jolt that began in her fingertips and shot directly to her heart, generating a vivid flood of memories that ended with his mouth on hers.

She pulled her hand away from his face slowly, feeling _déjà vu_ as she trailed her fingers along his facial hair for the second time that day. But it was different this time because his eyes were open – and fixed on her. She deliberately avoided his stare but could nevertheless feel it searing her skin in its intensity. And, when she at last broke their physical connection, she summoned up her courage and lifted her gaze to meet his.

Had he been any other man, she would have recognized that expression. The fiery stare he leveled at her looked, for all the world, like desire. But it couldn't be. _Get real. This is Grissom_, she told herself. Yet she still found it nearly impossible to catch her breath while she was spellbound by his eyes.

_Look away!_ Her mind commanded her obedience and, with every ounce of willpower she possessed, she forced her body to comply. She reached for her napkin and slowly wiped her shaking hands while she willed away the dizziness that seemed to be one of Grissom's main effects on her.

Nervously, she cleared her throat as she pushed herself to her feet, silently praying that her legs would hold her. "Well, I guess I'll go get cleaned up. It's been a long day." She mentally rejoiced that her voice came out strong and confident, not at all like she'd expected.

"OK," he rejoined quietly, and the tiny catch in his voice caused her to snap her eyes to his. The blaze she had seen there moments earlier had died down, leaving only a few smoldering embers, and she wondered what it would take to fan those coals into a full-blown flame. _Stop it_, she ordered herself and, before her treacherous heart could steer her thoughts down the same dangerous path it had traveled far too often, she grabbed her mug from the coffee table and quickly strode toward the door.

When she heard him call her name just as she reached the entrance to the kitchen, she wanted so badly to pretend she hadn't heard him. But they both knew she had, and she turned to face him. "Yeah?"

His voice was shy but hopeful as he said, "American Movie Classics is showing Charlie Chaplin movies at 10:00 all week. I thought you might be interested in watching again this morning. Good memories." When her eyes widened in surprise, his cheeks tinged pink, and he quickly clarified, "Of your grandparents. Didn't they like Chaplin?"

"Uh-huh," she replied, but both her voice and the wide grin that accompanied it clearly conveyed her amusement at his unintentional double entendre. When he looked away and began fidgeting with his mug, she took pity on him and said, "10:00, huh? That only gives me an hour to get my relaxation time in."

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out without waiting for a response. Grissom remained in the same position until the sound of her footsteps had completely receded before he rose from his seat to clear away their dishes. It was the only way he could be sure she wouldn't see the genuinely happy smile that he just couldn't seem to corral.

XXXXXXXXX

As he lifted the coverings away from the wire, Grissom smiled at the sight of his pet curled up in one sun-drenched corner. The electric blanket and quilt draped over Nathan's cage in his owner's absence kept him warm enough, but the cold-blooded creature always seemed to enjoy the fact that the side of the enclosure facing the window typically remained uncovered. More often than not, Grissom would return to find the reptile basking in sunlight. "Hey, big guy," he called affectionately and, hearing the familiar voice, the lizard roused and cracked open one eye.

For a Komodo dragon, Nathan was tiny, measuring just a little over two feet in length, a size that would have made him easy prey in the wild. But his stunted growth was a blessing for the 5'11" scientist who was his caretaker and, though there had been a couple of relatively minor mishaps, the two had gotten along remarkably well. It had been a learning process for both, but they had adjusted over time into a comfortable routine.

One thing Grissom had learned long ago was to stay away from animals at feeding time. It was just a wise practice, one he had always adhered to it strictly with all his pets – and even more so with one as potentially dangerous as Nathan. Today was no exception. The lizard eyed the plate of steak in his owner's hand steadily, but Grissom shook his head with a grin. "Yeah, I know you're hungry, but you know the routine."

After arranging the plate carefully on the floor beside a full bowl of water, he glanced around the room. Satisfied that everything was in order, he picked up the remote device lying on the dresser, stepping through the glass door into his backyard and shutting it behind him with a quiet click. After a quick double-check to ensure the door was closed, he pressed a button to release the latch on Nathan's cage, allowing the reptile to leave his metal prison.

Grissom lowered himself into the canvas chair on the back patio and surveyed his surroundings. This enclosure had served many purposes over the years – playground for Lindsey, barbecue pit, even a makeshift lab for some of his larger experiments. But far and away its greatest usefulness was as a sanctuary from the emotional exhaustion of seeking justice in the aftermath of utter moral bankruptcy, his own private oasis of sanity in a parched wilderness of depravity. A high fence ensured his privacy but, jutting just beyond the tops of the wooden posts, one especially majestic peak beckoned. The mountain was breathtaking beauty, its green and purple hues commingling into a kaleidoscope of color splashed against the brilliant blue canvas of the early morning sky.

Grissom had often imagined climbing to the top of that precipice to watch the sun make its trek across the sky. It was a favorite fantasy of his. An indulgence really, because that vision always included Sara. He pictured her silhouetted against a backdrop of rose-colored light, and he envisioned himself wrapping his arms around her from behind, burying his nose in her hair as she leaned back against him, kissing her when she turned in his arms to face him.

But today was different. Because today he no longer needed to _imagine_ what her hair would smell like or how her lips would feel. He could simply _remember_.

Remembering was a bittersweet act, though. Because, along with the joy he felt in finally taking action on his feelings for Sara, he also felt the pain of her rejection afterwards. And his mind seemed to be replaying in a continual loop her acknowledgment that she didn't trust him with her heart. The sting of that statement sent a pang through him even now.

For four years, he had utilized every weapon in his arsenal to defend his emotional walls against the constant onslaught that was Sara. But now that he'd seen firsthand how she filled the emptiness in his home, in his heart, he had realized he couldn't go back to the way things were before and had faced his long-held fears to take the next step. Only to have Sara push _him_ away. He would have laughed at the bitter irony of the situation had it not been so horribly sad. He deserved it, and he understood that, but it didn't make it any easier.

He looked away from the spectacular view, examining the yard with an investigator's eye in a desperate attempt to distract himself with some menial task that had yet to be completed. But it was all for naught, as even the tomato plants he carefully tended only reminded him of the pasta dish she'd made for him the day before.

Frustrated with his apparent inability to think of anything other than Sara, he shifted his chair slightly to the left to focus his attention on Nathan. _Let it go, Gil. She doesn't trust you. _It wasn't so long ago that he might have been happy about that fact, but now it just settled into his chest with a heavy, suffocating weight.

A part of him wanted to give up, to resort to his old ways, to embrace the fear and let it harden him into flinty steel that couldn't feel hurt or rejection. It was the path of least resistance, a comfortably familiar road that led, if not exactly to happiness, then at least to safety.

But safety was no longer a destination he desired. What he wanted instead was to scale that rocky hillside. And, though the climb had the potential to destroy him, it would be worth it to receive Sara's kiss as his only reward if he reached the top_. If only I knew how to get her there…_

He sighed and forced himself to concentrate on his pet's scaly frame as he peered through the glass door. The lizard had finished eating and was slowly moving across the bedroom in search of as yet unexplored objects, and Grissom smiled wistfully at the sight. _Fearless, as usual.  
_

The angle of his body in the chair was awkward, and he reached out to brace his palm against the doorframe in order to steady himself. Absently, he glanced at his hand, his intention merely to keep himself from leaving fingerprints on the clean glass. But the scar on his middle finger captivated his attention, and he winced slightly in remembrance. He and Nathan had been new to each other then, and he'd made the mistake of reaching for the animal from behind, an action he hadn't repeated for a long while. He could still feel the bite of tiny razor sharp teeth sinking into his finger.

Grissom pulled his hand down slowly, staring at the small mark that marred otherwise smooth flesh as realization slammed into the forefront of his consciousness with all the force of a runaway locomotive. _He didn't always trust me, either. But he eventually learned to_.

The clarity of the moment was startling. Certainly, he'd had revelations before – a tightly wrapped blanket interfering with insect colonization on human remains, an inadvertent kerosene accelerant thrown at a philandering husband, a bullet made entirely of frozen beef – but they had always been in the context of work. Solving crimes he was good at. Science he understood. Anything outside the purely professional, on the other hand, had always been shrouded in a veil of mystery, and he lived in a constant state of knowing what he wanted but not how to get it.

Until now.

For once, he knew exactly how to get what he wanted and, though the sudden lucidity in the personal realm came as something of a shock, it was nonetheless plainly obvious. When Nathan bit him, he hadn't given up on the animal. He had simply moved more slowly, been more deliberate in his actions until, one day while he sat on the floor watching television, the lizard had leaned his scaly head against Grissom's knee. He had attained Nathan's trust with his continual presence, with his persistent loyalty, with his unerring consistency. He would earn Sara's in the same way.

And, with the memory of her kiss still fresh in his mind, failure wasn't an option.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara leaned her head back against the cool porcelain of the tub and concentrated on the sensation of warm water caressing tired muscles, her hand trailing lazily back and forth across the sudsy surface. The soft crackle of bubbles and a faint scent of lilac blended together in a tantalizing conglomeration that soothed and lulled as it beckoned her into the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness.

She allowed her eyes to close and, slipping further into a state of complete relaxation, she smiled when Grissom made his usual appearance in her thoughts. The last few days had given her many images of him that she had never believed she'd see, so many more snapshots for her mental photo album, and she indulged herself in them.

The first was an image of Grissom holding his pet Komodo dragon, and the enraptured look on his face as he stared down at the animal brought a corresponding smile to her own. He clearly loved Nathan, and just seeing that he was capable of that emotion thrilled her somehow. For years, she had wondered if he had that ability in him, even as she hoped it would someday be directed toward her.

The picture shifted, and she could see him when he first awoke, all tousled curls and wrinkled T-shirt and drowsy eyes. She would caption that one, "Gil at dawn," though she knew it hadn't been dawn when she'd seen him that way. The label just seemed to suit, and she somehow knew he would still look the same if they lived a normal life that involved children and in-laws and 9-to-5 jobs. The fact that she saw one normal life rather than two separate ones didn't cross her mind.

The vision danced and morphed into the memory of the kiss they'd shared just a few hours earlier, and her stomach fluttered slightly as she recalled the exquisite rightness of his mouth on hers. Subconsciously, her tongue moved across her lips, her body not needing her consent in its attempt to relive the moment. His kiss had been everything she'd ever imagined… and everything she'd ever feared.

The remembrance sparked a flame deep inside her, and it sent out sparkling offshoots of emotion. Glowing embers of excitement and confusion and anger that hissed and flared and died away as though they had never been. The flame burned on, though – deeper, stronger than the rest – and she could call it by its four-letter name if she were so inclined. But such powerful emotions were nothing to be trifled with and, if she didn't keep them under a tight rein, they would surely end up controlling her.

Grissom had power over her, probably more than he realized, but he only had what she'd given him. It was the reason she had ended their kiss when she had – and long before she'd wanted to. She had tried to give him her heart once before, only to have it thrown back in her face, and she wouldn't make the same mistake again. She couldn't offer him that much power until she knew he was willing to give himself in return.

_What else would you have him give_? She had no time to ponder the question or the harsh and demanding tone of the inner voice that asked it before she was drawn into a final recollection, the most vivid yet. She saw Grissom's agitated pacing as he told her of past rejection, heard his defeated voice, _felt_ his fear. And yet, he had risen above it all to give her a piece of himself, knowing, and probably expecting, that she might reject him for it.

She sat bolt upright in the tub, not caring about or even feeling the water dripping from her hair or the chill that caused her skin to erupt in gooseflesh. She only felt an overwhelming awe in being entrusted with something so fragile and an absolute terror that she might somehow damage it.

For there were few things more easily broken than a heart.

XXXXXXXXX

The townhouse was unusually quiet as she padded down the hall, but Sara didn't pause to think about it. She wanted to see him, immediately if not sooner. She simply wanted to be near him again, to hear his breath, to feel the heat of his body beside hers as they watched Chaplin in comfortable silence. And so she walked on, each step of her stockinged feet bringing her closer to her goal, closer to Grissom, closer to Gil.

That thought caused her steps to falter, but only for a moment. He was Gil to her now, if in her thoughts only, and she would not be ashamed of that.

She rounded the corner and smiled to hear the faint murmur of the television, disembodied voices rambling about matters that didn't concern her. A morning of silent film and intelligent company awaited and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was happy. Deliriously, ridiculously so. And, though her brain demanded that she temper emotion with reason, she couldn't force her heart to listen.

Her first sight of Grissom caused her breathing to hitch and, though she felt the sting of disappointment all the way to her toes, she couldn't help but smile. Watching him sleep seemed to evoke the same response from her every time.

He sat on the couch with bare feet propped on the coffee table, legs crossed in relaxation. His left hand still clutched a forensic journal, though it now rested next to him on the sofa. His right held the remote control loosely against his abdomen, and his head lolled slightly to the side, the glasses slipping down his nose at a humorous angle. _Gil in repose_.

The caption was unintended but not necessarily unwanted, and she quickly filed it alongside the image in her mental album before moving to restore order. She carefully pulled the journal from his grasp and set it aside, and the remote control followed just as easily after she turned off the television. Sara then turned her attention to his glasses, knowing their removal was a much more difficult task to accomplish without arousing him. But, after much deliberation and painstaking care, she at last succeeded and stood back to survey her handiwork.

He still looked uncomfortable, and it bothered her. The awkward tilt of his head would certainly cause a sore neck when he awoke, and to leave him in such a state was unacceptable. She debated shifting his legs so that he was lying on the couch, but such drastic motion would undoubtedly wake him and was thus not an option. Finally, she picked up the cushion from the far end of the couch and ever so gently eased her fingers against his cheek, pressing lightly to force his head in the opposite direction. He stirred, and she took advantage of the movement to prop the pillow against his shoulder, pleased when his head ultimately came to rest against it with his neck in a healthier position.

Only one task now remained, and she unfolded the throw from the back of the couch slowly. She allowed herself one last look at his slumbering form before she gently draped the blanket across him, covering him from shoulders to feet. She smiled tenderly at the sight he presented and was unable to resist pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, whispering quietly against his skin, "Good night, Gil." And, when she looked down at him as she pulled away, she could have sworn he was smiling.

The townhouse was even quieter than before, with her light steps on the carpet offering the only sound. The return trip down the hallway contained none of the eager anticipation that had characterized her earlier trek. But the happiness remained, and she knew it had nothing to do with Charlie Chaplin.

She pushed open the door to her room and couldn't help but grin at the mess that greeted her. In her hurry to join Grissom, she had simply tossed her clothes and toiletries onto the bed, not really caring where they fell. With a quick shake of her head, she opened the closet door and pulled out her suitcase. She had just wrestled it onto the bed and unzipped the black canvas to examine its contents when inspiration struck. "This is ridiculous," she grumbled aloud as she walked over to the oak bureau.

It didn't surprise her to find every drawer in the chest empty. She'd somehow expected it, and she made quick work of unloading the contents of the suitcase into the bureau. The simple act fulfilled the dual purpose of making her feel more at home and of causing the stark surroundings to seem more inviting. She couldn't quite bring herself to relinquish her underwear, but she still felt that she'd made huge strides as she rezipped the canvas suitcase. And, when she fell into bed, the dreams that came involved a strange mixture of oak furniture and silent film stars and, of course, Gil.

XXXXXXXXX

He smiled when she touched her lips to his, all searing pleasure and overwhelming joy and sheer perfection. But the sensations gave way to annoyance when the sound intruded, and the noise was distracting enough for him to plead, "Sara, turn off the alarm." She moved away from him then, and the loss jolted him awake.

The cell phone was still ringing, and he snaked a hand out from under the blanket to grab it. "Grissom." His voice was gruff with sleep and irritation, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Gil," came the familiar voice. "We need you. Nick's on his way to your place now."

_Nick_? He was slightly more awake now, but he still wasn't comprehending Brass' logic. "What?"

The cop heaved an exasperated huff as he patiently explained, "You can't leave Sara alone, and you can't bring her with you. Nicky was the first one I called."

Grissom sighed, sitting up and running a hand across the back of his stiff neck. The lack of sleep was making him irritable, and it showed in his tone. "Just have Nick meet you down there. Sara and I will come in to the lab to help-"

"Gil," Brass barked, cutting him off. "Our perp left another note. We need you _here_."

And the familiar terror rose in his chest. Only this time it was not because he was afraid of being _with_ Sara, but because he was afraid of being _without_ her. "What's the address?"

**TBC…**


	21. Running to Stand Still

**A/N: **Scientifically proven equation. 55-hour work weeks + overcommitment to community activities + worst case of writer's block ever three-month delay. This is Billy4Me's Law and, yes, it has been validated. :-)

**Spoilers: **"Butterflied," "Primum Non Nocere," "The Strip Strangler"

**Disclaimer: **We've got to call in CSI. CSI? What is it? Well, it's a big TV show with lots of attractive stars, but that's not important right now. Heh. Yeah, I don't own _CSI:_ OR _Airplane!_, but I love them both dearly. :-)

I also don't own the chapter title. It's actually the title of one of my favorite U2 songs, so all the credit goes to Bono and the boys. It's just got such great meaning, and I couldn't resist.

**Chapter 21: Running to Stand Still**

Warrick's eyes burned with the prickly heat of too little sleep and too much caffeine. He blinked twice in an effort to get moisture to his eyes, but to no avail. The effects of a full twenty-four hours without rest weighed him down, even as he held them at bay with the double-tall black coffee he clutched as though his life depended on it.

The adrenaline rush of chasing a clue had kept him alert for the better part of the day but, when he had found himself dozing off while staring at the microfiche, he'd known it was time to call it quits. He'd been gathering his things to head home for a few hours of much-needed rest when the insistent melody of his cell phone had reclassified his day from long to interminable.

Catherine had sounded as exhausted as he felt, but her mention of a second note got the adrenaline coursing through his veins again. And, though his eyes still stung, his pulse and the liquid caffeine he'd stopped to pick up at her request had combined to render him fully awake. At least for the moment.

He eased the Denali to a stop in front of a two-story building that had once been a bastion of Vegas in all its gleaming glory, a throwback to a heyday when gangsters had constructed a shimmering artificial fortress reaching skyward from the dusty ground of the desert. The sturdy brick structure had been remodeled several times since and most recently converted into a four-unit apartment building that bore little resemblance to the mob-operated hotel it once was.

The lanky CSI drained the last of his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trash can as he stepped from the truck. When he spotted the familiar figure supervising the setup of crime scene tape, he grabbed his kit along with one of the cardboard containers occupying the Denali's twin cupholders and loped unhurriedly in that direction.

Brass jerked his head around when Warrick extended the coffee into his line of vision, and the younger man's wide grin brought a corresponding smile to his own face. "Thanks, Rick," he said as he took the cup and slowly sipped from its contents.

The weary detective closed his eyes, savoring the bitter tang on his tongue and momentarily ignoring his surroundings. All too soon, reality would once again rear its ugly head and drag him into a world of fear and death and deception. Any escape, no matter how fleeting, was a welcome respite.

Warrick's chuckle was what brought him back. "Man, that coffee must be _good_."

Brass glanced pointedly at the Starbucks label on the side of the container. "Well, at three bucks a pop, it oughta be."

The younger man's nod was emphatic. "True dat."

"Cath's suggestion?"

Warrick smirked. "More like an order, but yeah."

"Ah, so she's got you buying her frou-frou coffee these days, huh? I wondered who was gonna be next on her sucker list." Brass' grin broadened when the CSI's brow crinkled in confusion, and he clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Don't feel bad, Rick. There's one born every minute."

Warrick rolled his eyes at the detective's smug smile and shook his head as he gestured toward the building. "So you gonna fill me in, or what?"

The simple question changed the tenor of the conversation in an instant. Brass' face darkened as he spoke, and the look he leveled at his younger colleague was deadly serious. "No more pussyfooting around with this guy, Rick. We catch him, and we catch him now." And, without another word, he stalked toward the building's entrance, pausing only to slam his half-full cup into a wastebasket as he passed and leaving the stunned scientist scrambling to catch up.

XXXXXXXXX

Catherine snapped one final photograph of the victim's restraints and stepped back to watch David finish his ritual. His capable hands moved respectfully over the body, cataloguing the small puncture wound in the crook of the left elbow and the knee brace still in place on the left leg. Other than a few obvious abnormalities and the typewritten note lying undisturbed on the kitchen table, there was very little to indicate Tania Hutchins' last hours on earth were anything less than pleasant.

Needing more context, the blonde stepped back carefully and surveyed the bedroom. The victim had been a quiet 25-year-old known for her bashful demeanor, but her living quarters revealed her personality vividly. Scuba gear was piled neatly in one corner of the room, ready at a moment's notice. An ancient and obviously well-loved teddy bear sat forlornly in the middle of a bed that seemed too large for the room. Snapshots adorned every available surface, the happiness on the faces of their subjects bright and genuine.

The veteran CSI's gaze was drawn to the photo of a middle-aged man with his arms wrapped around Tania. The resemblance was strong enough that she would have known he was the young woman's father even without the matching uniforms and smiles they wore. A livid Brass had already informed her that the victim had been a highly regarded police diver, the pride and joy and the living legacy of a decorated cop recently killed in the line of duty. But seeing this visual depiction of vibrant and youthful life juxtaposed against the backdrop of premature and unseemly death drove the point home in a way her friend's clipped words had not.

If this killer could so easily murder a police officer, what would keep him from getting to Sara?

"She's all yours." David called the words over his shoulder as he packed the last of his tools, and Catherine was glad he didn't see her jump at the sound. She had been so preoccupied that she had forgotten he was even in the room.

"Thanks, David," she replied with forced cheerfulness, but she knew the effort had fallen flat when she saw his expression. But the young man didn't question, merely gave her a sad smile as he passed, and she couldn't help but wonder if his thoughts were also with Sara.

With a sigh, she set the photo back on the dresser and returned her attention to the body, bagging evidence with a meticulous precision borne of long practice. But the ominous weight of threat hung heavy in the room, making concentration difficult, and she more than once had to redirect her wandering thoughts onto the task at hand.

"Where do you want me?" Warrick's honey-rich baritone was a welcome reprieve, and she glanced up from her position beside the victim to flash him a tired smile.

The young man's eyes were on the strip of black neoprene she was unwinding from the victim's wrists, and he cocked his head to the side as he crouched across from her to study it more closely. "Vic was, what? A diver?"

"What gave it away? The scuba gear in the corner?" She grinned and punctuated the comment with a pointed nod.

Warrick looked surprised as he glanced in that direction, and he shot her a sheepish grin. "Well, I guess it would have if I'd been observant enough to notice that. Some investigator _I_ am."

Catherine regarded him curiously as she bagged the restraints. "So what _did_ tip you off?"

He shrugged. "The restraints are a commentary on the victim. Made sense that the perp would use neoprene for a diver."

It was her turn to look surprised. "The restraints are a commentary on the victim?" she repeated. "How'd you figure that out?"

"Me and Sara went through the old cases and made the connection. COD plays into it, too." He counted each victim off on his fingers as he continued. "Allison Shea, marine biologist who wanted to save dolphins. Cause of death was salt water poisoning, and she was restrained with fishing net. Marilyn Ellis was a housewife, so she got bleach and panty hose. And Javier Ruiz used to be an execu-"

She shook her head as she held up a hand to interrupt him. "Wait a minute. Who?"

Understanding dawned, and he nodded. "Oh, yeah, sorry. Sara found him. Another vic. Killed last November."

"So this girl makes four." The statement was rhetorical, but Warrick nodded anyway.

She suddenly felt very tired and, with an effort, she pushed herself to a standing position. "I've got the body, and Grissom should be here soon. You take the rest of this place and leave the note for him." She was already moving towards the door when she said, "I need some air."

"Hey, Cath." His tone was hushed, and she slowed her progress momentarily to look back at him. When she met his eyes, he gave her a smile. "Your coffee's in the truck."

She nodded and resumed her trek, hoping the hot beverage would somehow counteract the icy grip of violent death.

XXXXXXXXX

Sara awoke with a start, blinking rapidly against the harshness of the early evening sun. Unsure what had roused her, she lay still for long moments, listening to the silence that cloaked the townhouse in an unnatural placidity. And, when the uneasiness became intolerable, she pushed herself to her feet and padded into the hall.

She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but Nick seated at the breakfast bar with his head buried in a case file was certainly not it. Surprised, she halted in the doorway, and the young man looked up at the movement. With a huge grin, he drawled, "Mornin', Sunshine!"

She glared in response, but it inflicted no damage. With the smile still firmly in place, he asked, "Want some dinner? I'm pretty good in the kitchen."

Sara shook her head and narrowed her eyes at him in puzzlement. "Nick, no offense, but why are you here? Where's Grissom?"

"Yeah, I see where I rate," he chuckled. But, when she put her hands on her hips and glared at him, he quickly raised his hands in surrender. "Geez, Sar, lighten up, 'kay? Grissom got called away on a case, and Brass asked me to come over here to stay with you while he's gone."

"What case?" Her question was more a demand than a request.

Nick looked stricken. "Um… look… let's just… uh…"

"Nick!" When he met her eyes, she held his gaze and said, "Tell me."

He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Fine. The killer left another note."

Something inside her had known that he had killed again, but the words still struck with a force that nearly took her breath away. She closed her eyes, and Nick watched her, his anger and guilt building in a pressure cooker of emotion until he could no longer contain it. "Are you happy now? Grissom told me not to tell you but, no, you couldn't leave well enough alone!"

When she opened her eyes to look at him, he saw the moisture lingering there, and the anger drained away, leaving only remorse in its place. "Dang, Sara, I'm sorry."

He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I'm fine. I just, uh… I need some space. I'm… going to take a bath."

He nodded, helplessly watching her back away before the tears fell. When he heard the door click shut down the hall, he swore loudly as he slammed his fist down on the breakfast bar.

XXXXXXXXX

Catherine took a long drink of her lukewarm cappuccino and leaned tiredly against the Denali, eyes closed against the waning twilight and the growing crowd. Attuned to her own erratic thoughts, she barely noticed Brass' appearance until he nudged her arm. "Sleeping on the job?"

She raised a brow in acknowledgement but kept her eyes shut. "Jim. Good to know we can always count on your wry sense of humor."

He chuckled, but there was no joy in the sound. "Sorry I can't do better, but cop killers don't really bring out the comedian in me." When she lifted her head and opened her eyes to look at him, he added, "We have to catch this guy, Cath."

"Yes, we do." Grissom's terse words came from behind the Denali, and they turned to look at him as he continued. "But I fail to see how standing around out here on a coffee break is going to accomplish that."

Brass opened his mouth to retort, but Catherine silenced him with one hand on his arm. With a sigh, she handed him the remains of her cappuccino and extended a hand toward her disgruntled supervisor. "Come on, Gil. I'll fill you in."

Grissom forced himself to calm down as they walked, focusing on his surroundings as he listened to his colleague. He'd been unfair, and he knew it. But he'd been unable to stop himself, and his lack of self-control bothered him. _We have to catch this guy_. He repeated Jim's words in his head and took comfort in the new mantra.

When they reached the door, he nodded to the young officer guarding the scene and bent to duck under the crime scene tape, but Catherine stopped him. "Gil."

From his awkward position, he glanced up at her, slightly annoyed at the delay. "What?"

Uncertainty crossed her face for just a moment before the familiar confidence took its place. "Are you sure you can handle this?"

His annoyance blossomed into full-blown anger as he drew himself to his full height. "Excuse me?"

"Gil," she said firmly, hoping her repeated use of his name would somehow appeal to his logic. "I've read this note, and we both know it mentions Sara. You need to be sure you can be impartial. Can you?"

Acutely aware of the officer's attention to their conversation, Grissom ducked quickly under the crime scene tape and held it for Catherine to follow. When she did, he took a few steps into the room and hissed quietly in reply, "When have I _ever_ been unable to be impartial?"

"When it involves Sara," she snapped back in a whisper. "Hence the question." When his face darkened further, she held up one hand and continued softly, her voice brimming with compassion. "Look, it wasn't so long ago that you forgot to eat when a woman who looked like Sara was murdered. You worked yourself into the ground over that case, so don't try to tell me you're always impartial. I just need to know if you can handle this. And so do you."

He sighed, his anger assuaged by her quiet words. She was right. Sara's life depended on his rationality, and he could not allow emotion to cloud his judgment, even for a moment. The stakes were too high.

He looked away from his colleague, eyes scanning the room and finally falling on the note lying on the table. And he wanted nothing more than to find its author. Turning to meet Catherine's worried gaze, he calmly replied, "I can handle it."

XXXXXXXXX

Sara ignored the shaking in her hands as she hastily pulled clothes from the bureau. "Jeans… T-shirt…" She muttered under her breath as she grabbed each item, a desperate attempt at a running commentary to distract herself from the dangerous thoughts lurking at the rear of her mind.

The emotions were just below the surface, bubbling and hot and threatening to overflow. But she wouldn't, couldn't, allow that. Not here, not now, with Nick in the next room and Grissom on a case and a killer on the loose…

_Stop it_! She practically ripped a pair of socks out of the top drawer before roughly slamming it shut and heading for the bathroom. Anger welled up within her, and she allowed it to roil and hiss because it was easier to deal with than the fear.

And she had no shortage of targets. Brass and his misguided paternalism. Nick in all his oblivious glory. And Grissom. Oh, Grissom. He of the emotional repression and the terrified inaction and the over-protective secrecy.

So many reasons to despise the day she'd ever met the man. Her thoughts were dark as she dropped her wadded clothes onto the toilet and adjusted the temperature of the water. Its silken heat caressed her palm, and she stretched out her fingers to watch it cascade over her hand in ever-changing patterns. _So many reasons…_

She turned to reach for the bubble bath, and a stab of yellow caught her eye. The obnoxious cheerfulness of the color against the bland backdrop of the mirror was startling, and she stood to retrieve the crinkled paper, handling it carefully, as though it were evidence. And, in a way, it was.

The handwriting was messier than even his normal hurried style, as if he hadn't wanted to waste time on forming the letters legibly. But the words… ah, the words. They were a different matter altogether.

"Sara," it began, and she could hear his gentle voice soothing her tattered emotions as she read. "By now, I'm sure you've discovered that I got called away on a case, and I'm equally certain you've dragged it out of Nick that this one is similar to the others. Though I know you're probably angry, I won't apologize for not taking you with me. I am obligated to protect you, and I'm not sorry for fulfilling that responsibility."

She rolled her eyes involuntarily, and her rebellious nature flared, but she forced herself to keep reading. "My only regret is that I didn't tell you face-to-face. You deserved that, and I know this is the coward's way out. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, Sara. When I saw you sleeping, you looked so peaceful that I couldn't bring myself to disturb you. It just seemed cruel."

A loose "G" was scrawled across the bottom almost as an afterthought, but what caught her eye was the one mistake he had made. Where Grissom had printed the word "peaceful," his original writing had been scratched through. But not well enough. She could still read "beautiful" underneath.

The memory of an ice rink and the last time he'd made a comment about beauty flickered across her mind, and she smiled at the remembrance. His words had rendered her speechless then, and she shook her head as she realized they still had the same effect.

So many reasons he made her angry, made her want to cut her losses and run, and only one reason she was still here. But love was the biggest reason of all.

XXXXXXXXX

He couldn't put it off any longer. He had dusted the table for prints, taken multiple photographs, searched for shoeprints on the dingy beige carpet. He'd done everything he could do short of actually reading the note itself.

Intentionally.

Despite his quick reply to Catherine that he could handle processing the killer's message, Grissom knew this case was getting to him. It was crucial that he remain focused, follow protocol, go where the evidence took him. Normally, that wasn't a problem. Then again, the criminals they chased didn't normally mention Sara by name. And the fact that this one did bothered him far more than he was willing to admit.

_No emotions in here_. His own words to Sara at another serial killer's crime scene floated across his mind, and the irony that it was now he who couldn't seem to control his personal feelings on the job was not lost on him. It was that very awareness that made him drag in a deep breath as he bent to return his fingerprint powder to its spot in his kit. It was time.

Risking damage to the manuscript with photocopying was not an option, so Grissom reached for the legal pad he always kept in his kit and stood wearily, forcing himself to fix his gaze on the lone page lying on the dining room table. _Focus, Gil_. He sighed heavily as he uncapped his pen to copy the words of a killer.

Agent Sidle (or may I call you Sara?):

Don't think me a poet,  
But I like a good riddle.  
It's more about the ends,   
Than what's in the middle.

Those who look but don't see,  
Or see only a ghost,  
Will too late acknowledge  
An electric mind superior to most.

I hope you recall  
That old theory of yours,  
For, without it, you'll find  
You can't open these doors.

Don't think me a fool,  
Or try and pretend.  
I know right where you are,  
And I'll have my girls in the end.

Love,  
Kim

It was almost eloquent in its simplicity. Four stanzas of verse that simultaneously chilled him to the bone and inflamed him with white-hot rage. He shivered even as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

His heart raced, and he could hear his own pulse thundering wildly in his ears. _Focus, Gil, focus_. But focus was hard to come by with the poetic outpourings of a deviant mind still echoing in his head, and he tightened his grip on the pen as he fought the insane urge to fling it across the room. He closed his eyes and moved his fingers to his wrist, willing himself to breathe deeply in an effort to calm both his pounding heart and his frantic mind.

But the effort was for naught as his thoughts were interrupted by a voice just behind him calling his name.

He jumped and sucked in a breath, prompting a chuckle from Brass. The detective held up his hands in contrition, but his wide grin belied the sincerity of his mumbled apology.

Grissom pressed his lips together to stop the string of profanity he so desperately wanted to unleash. Jim hadn't deserved his anger outside, and he didn't deserve it now.

Brass seemed to sense his mood and gently questioned, "You read it, didn't you?"

His response was sharper than he intended, but he was tired, so tired of holding it all in. "What exactly did you think I've been doing all this time, Jim? Working crossword puzzles?"

The cop cocked his head as he regarded his old friend, and noticed, perhaps for the first time, the worry that had chiseled deep lines around his eyes and pressed down on his shoulders with its heavy weight. And certainly for the first time, he questioned his own judgment in calling Gil Grissom to a crime scene. Because the face that stared back at him was not that of a world-renowned scientist solving a mystery but rather of a desperate man protecting the woman he loved.

Though he had little doubt as to the response he would receive, he had to ask the question. "Gil, are you sure you should be here?"

Grissom exploded. "What? Where the hell else would you have me be? Rather than standing around criticizing the job _I'm _doing, why don't you do yours and make sure Sara's protected? Because, if anything happens to her – and I mean, _anything_ – I'm holding _you_ responsible!"

Unfazed, Brass stared back at the CSI's menacing glare and calmly waved off the young officer who had appeared in the doorway. "Everything's fine, Kirkland," he called, never taking his eyes away from Grissom's.

Seconds passed as the two remained locked in their battle of wills until, finally, the detective sighed and reached into his pocket. Fishing out a wad of keys, he hefted them in his hand momentarily before holding them out to his friend. "Take 'em. They're Sara's."

The scientist did as requested and, by the time he looked up to respond, Brass was halfway across the room. He watched him go, regret and fear and anger commingling until he wasn't sure where they diverged, or even if they did at all.

But Jim, ever the observer, seemed to understand his dilemma completely for, when he reached the door, he turned and gently said, "Hey, Gil? I already had a black-and-white sent over to your place on protective detail. Because _I'd_ hold me responsible, too."

And, with that, he was gone, never hearing the quiet apology of his best friend but knowing it was there, nevertheless.

XXXXXXXXX

The seconds had stretched into minutes and, still, the silence remained. Whether that was good or bad, Warrick wouldn't know until he ventured out into it.

He'd finished processing the bathroom a while back but had no great desire to interrupt the vehement disagreement in the next room. His grandmother had long ago taught him to stay out of other people's business, and he would live by that advice until he heard blows exchanged. When no sounds of a scuffle were forthcoming, he had stood beside the door for a time, waiting, listening. And, when he could at last bear the stillness no longer, he took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob.

The lone figure standing beside the dining room table looked older than he'd ever seen him, and Warrick fleetingly wondered if this would be the case that would finally take his mentor from him for good. But he forced away the thought, feeling slightly guilty for even having it.

He kept his voice soft, his tone even and calm. "You alright, Grissom?"

"I wish everyone would stop asking me that. Are you questioning my competence, too?"

The younger man scoffed. "Right. Just like I question Einstein's competence in physics."

Grissom smiled slightly and turned partway to face him. "That's high praise."

Warrick shrugged and covered the distance to stand beside his boss in two easy steps. At close range, he could feel the older man's emotions rolling off of him in waves. Their normally stoic supervisor was barely holding himself together, and it was unnerving. But, on some level, it was a relief. _Gil Grissom, you're human after all_.

The young man looked down at the note, and the "Agent Sidle" reference struck a chord. "Hey, did you know Sara thought about going to work for the FBI?"

His boss turned to him sharply. "What?"

"Yeah, and she was a decoy for them during the Strip Strangler case. You remember that?"

Grissom nodded slowly, clearly confused about the direction of the conversation.

Warrick continued, "Well, it got me thinking. You know, maybe our perp knew that, too. I called in a few favors and got some old videotape of the news coverage during that case. I was thinking, maybe she was on TV at some point, and our guy saw her."

When he saw his supervisor's curious look, he shook his head sadly. "Nothing. If she was on TV during that time, I couldn't find it. But I did find this." He fished the page from the back pocket of his jeans and extended it toward his boss.

Grissom perused the document carefully and glanced up in surprise. The young man's voice was heavy with disappointment as he told him, "It's all I could find. I know she's not quoted, but it does make a reference to her being an FBI decoy."

"This is good work."

Grissom's voice was sincere, and his praise was hard-won, but it didn't help find the killer. Warrick merely shrugged and refocused his attention on the note, catching one important detail immediately. "Hey, he wrote his name by hand this time."

"Yeah. I'm hoping Ronnie will be able to tell us something about that."

Warrick nodded and glanced up at his boss. "So, you need some help here, or what?"

Grissom shook his head as he reached for the note. "Just need to bag…" The words remained unspoken when he picked up the paper and, for the first time, saw the handwritten address on the back. And it took his brain far longer than it should have to process that it was his own.

**TBC…**


	22. Fear and Trembling

**A/N: **Same song, different verse. The bad news: It's been 2-1/2 months since the last chapter. But, hey, the good news? I'm on vacation this week and am already hard at work on chapter 23. Promise:-)

**Spoilers: **"Butterflied," "All for our Country," "Play with Fire," "Inside the Box"

**Disclaimer: **OK, see, if I owned _CSI:_, it wouldn't be taking me two and three months between chapters.

**Chapter 22: Fear and Trembling**

Catherine glared at her kit, but it didn't change a thing. She was still out of evidence bags, and no amount of scowling would make a difference. She was just thankful she'd already bagged everything she'd found in Tania Hutchins' bedroom, leaving only her gloves still needing a plastic home.

With a sigh, she plucked off the gloves and held them gingerly in one hand while she took one final look around the room. Her neck hurt, her back hurt, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and sink into a hot bath with a good book and a steaming cup of tea.

_Not an option_, she chided herself. She shook her head as she stashed the small pile of evidence she'd collected inside her kit. _We've got a long night ahead of us_.

Gloves in one hand and kit in the other, she switched off the bedroom light with her elbow and walked swiftly down the hall to the main living area. Forcing away the fatigue, she placed the kit on the floor and leaned against the doorframe. With a sly smile, she cooed, "If you want the job done right, ask a woman. I'm finished in the bedroom. You guys need some help out here?"

Warrick looked up at her with an easy grin. "Talking smack is so un-ladylike." He smirked at her exaggerated pout before jerking his thumb toward their supervisor. "To answer your question, Grissom's just gotta bag that note, and we're outta here."

She smiled as she looked toward her friend, but it quickly faded when she saw his face. He looked as pale as a ghost, and the paper in his hand shook minutely between trembling fingers. She took a tiny step forward to get his attention. "Gil?"

The sound of his name caused him to look up, and Catherine shuddered slightly at the chill that ran down her spine. His fear was so plainly written across his face that she could almost feel its cold grip. There had only been one other time she could remember Grissom looking so terrified, and that had involved a murder victim who could have been Sara's double. Hesitantly, she took a step toward him and craned her neck slightly to see what was written on the page.

Catherine's movement freed him from his trance, and he thrust the paper toward her so quickly she barely had time to reposition her gloves to take it cleanly. As she gripped the evidence tightly with her used gloves, she opened her mouth to protest. "Grissom!"

But he was too busy striding toward the front door to hear. For one moment, she watched him go, stunned at his inexplicable departure from such a crucial crime scene. And, in the next, she understood, because her eyes fell on the address written on the back of the note. Grissom's address, and she knew why he was leaving.

No longer caring about evidence contamination, she shoved the note, gloves and all, at a shocked Warrick and headed toward the door, ignoring her younger colleague's calls. He could wait.

By the time she'd ducked under the crime scene tape, Grissom was halfway to the parking lot, and she had to break into a jog to catch up with him. When she did, she reached for his arm. "Gil!"

He shrugged her off and kept walking. "What is it, Catherine?"

It was a struggle, but she kept up the frantic pace. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Home."

She stepped in front of him and stopped, and Grissom nearly ran into her. "Gil. You _can't_ go home."

His eyes flashed angrily, but her fury had reached its own epic proportions. "This guy has killed four people that we know of, and he has your address!"

"That's exactly why I'm going."

"This is about Sara."

"Gee, Cath, all those years as a CSI have really paid off. Your deductive skills amaze me." And, with the sarcastic comment, he moved around her quickly and resumed his long stride toward the Denali.

_Oh, no, he didn't_. She took off after him. "You are a scientist, not Rambo! You can't be racing into danger and saving the day, Gil! Nick is with her, and Brass can send cops faster than you can get there anyway. Let the people who are trained for this handle it!"

He would have turned to look at her, but it would have slowed him down. Instead, he directed his comments straight ahead. "A black-and-white is already there."

Her jaw dropped open. "What! Then let them do their job!"

"Oh, like the last time? No, thank you."

It took her a second to figure out he was referring to the murder of two suspected serial killers while they were under the supposed watch of two undercover officers. _Of course_.

She was running out of time because they had almost reached Grissom's truck, and she managed to reach the door one step ahead of him, effectively blocking his entrance. He glared at her, but she met his gaze steadily. "Look, I know you're emotionally involved here. Hell, we _all_ are! But don't be stupid! Getting yourself killed is not going to help Sara!"

But her impassioned plea fell on deaf ears, and she watched his eyes narrow dangerously. His voice was menacingly quiet when he spoke. "I'm not leaving her alone."

She wanted to grab him by the lapels, to shake some sense into him, to yell that Sara wasn't alone, that Nick was with her, that the black-and-white was there and more cops could arrive soon. But, somewhere inside the angry darkness of his eyes, she saw the truth and knew the futility of argument. And she found herself momentarily jealous of Sara and wishing there was a man who felt so passionately about her, even if he wouldn't show it openly.

Impulsively, she reached up and kissed his cheek before stepping aside. "You're a good man, Gil, and Sara's lucky to have you. Be careful."

Had he been less distracted, he would have cocked his head and looked at her in confusion, would have studied her as though she were some new species of insect he had discovered. As it was, he simply nodded and climbed into the sturdy vehicle, and she watched as he sped away.

When the taillights were out of sight, she turned with a heavy sigh to see Brass ambling toward her. "Where's he going?" he asked.

She glanced back in the direction Grissom had gone and said, "To his house."

The cop was confused. "What, is he sick?"

She shook her head. "No, Jim. That note we found? It had his address written on the back."

"What? And you let him go!" Brass' voice held an angry undertone, and her temper flared up to meet it.

"You think I didn't try to stop him? He's freaked out, he's scared, and this is pretty much a direct threat to the woman he's in love with. What would _you_ do in that situation?"

He didn't back down. "_I _would have called in the professionals, especially considering many of them are my friends! Geez, Cath, I don't believe you!"

"Well, it didn't help that two of those professionals let a couple of suspects get murdered on their watch last year."

Brass was livid. "Is that what this is all about? What, you don't trust my guys now?"

Catherine sighed deeply at the counterproductive turn this conversation had taken. Closing her eyes briefly, she held up a hand and shook her head firmly. "No, Jim, that's _not_ what I'm saying. I'm just telling you I tried to talk him out of going, but you should have seen his eyes. There was no arguing with him. Wild horses couldn't keep him away from that townhouse."

The detective shook his head in frustration, but she put a hand on his forearm. "We need to figure out a plan to keep both of them safe because Grissom's not leaving her again until we find this guy."

XXXXXXXXX

The smell wafting down the hall from the kitchen was the first thing that caught Sara's attention when she stepped out of the bathroom. _Mmm, pancakes_.

She hurriedly dropped her things in the guest bedroom and made her way to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to observe Nick concentrating on the frying pan in front of him. Smiling, she teased, "Pancakes? Nicky, I never knew you were so domestic."

Grinning, he glanced up at her momentarily before returning his attention to the pan. "I believe the word you're looking for is 'flapjacks.' And I'm not ashamed to say I know my way around a kitchen."

Her smile widened as she walked further into the room. Patting him on the shoulder, she stopped beside him, the pair momentarily dazzled by the sight of batter bubbling and browning in the pan. It was nice, having him here. Nick was fun, with his Texas drawl and his boyish mannerisms and his apparent ability to cook, and it reminded her of the lazy Saturdays in her teen years when she and David would arise early to make breakfast for the family.

She smiled at the memory and nudged his arm with her shoulder. "Well, I was just about to vote you off the island, but this new revelation of your culinary skills means you can stay. For now."

"Gee, thanks."

He intended to make a sarcastic comment, but the electronic sound of Beethoven erupting from the phone clipped to his belt intervened. He flipped a pancake before bringing the phone to his ear. "Stokes."

Sara headed for the refrigerator, pulling out orange juice and wondering at the comfort level she felt in rummaging through Grissom's kitchen. _A few days here, and I'm acting like I own the place. That can't be good_. And yet, the thought still brought a smile to her face.

She was in the midst of rooting through the pantry when Nick called her name, and she paused in her quest for syrup to see him holding his cell phone out to her. "It's Catherine," he announced, and his voice was curiously flat.

She raised one eyebrow in question, but his expression remained carefully guarded. She plucked the phone from his hand and willed her voice to be steady as she spoke. "Hey, Cath."

"Hey. I need to talk to you about something."

The words and the somber tone of the older woman's voice plowed into her gut like a fist, and Sara leaned heavily against the counter as she struggled to regain her breath. _Please, God, don't let it be Grissom_.

She'd never been one to pray, but the plea seemed to well up involuntarily from deep inside. Grissom in danger. Grissom hurt. Grissom dead. The thoughts came and, just behind them, the prayer was there again, and she was begging, pleading with God for His mercy, for His help. _Please, God. Please, God_.

"Sara? You still there?" The tone was urgent, and she could hear Catherine's concern over the line even as she saw Nick's in his movement toward her.

"It's Grissom, isn't it? Is he…" She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought because, somehow, that would make it true, would make it reality, and that was just not possible.

"What? Oh, God, no. No! He's fine. Really. I promise."

The older woman's voice was sincere and, when the words finally registered in her fogged brain, she let out a choked breath, clenching her jaw to keep it from becoming a sob. And the prayer changed in purpose but not in zeal. _Thank you, God. Thank you, God_.

Catherine was contrite. "I'm sorry, Sara. I just… God, I didn't mean to scare you. He's on his way there now, as a matter of fact." She sighed and added, "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Shakily, Sara made her way around the breakfast bar to one of the stools and sat as Nick worriedly looked on. She smiled in an attempt to reassure him, but it didn't seem to help.

She pointed to the stove, and her companion muttered an expletive as he refocused his attention on the nearly burnt pancakes. And there was something in the normalcy of the moment that gave her strength. She drew in a breath, and the steadiness of her voice surprised her. "What is it, Cath?"

"Listen close, because I have a lot to tell you."

XXXXXXXXX

His hands were shaking. Shaking violently, and he couldn't make them stop. He couldn't steady them, no matter how tightly he gripped the steering wheel, no matter how he clutched it until his knuckles were white, until his muscles ached. They wouldn't stop shaking, and he didn't know if they ever would. Maybe they would tremble forever, a lasting reminder of his fear, of his inadequacy.

He remembered a conversation he'd once had with Greg. The DNA technican had been embarrassed by the shaking in his hands, an unwanted legacy of the explosion that had nearly taken his life. But Grissom had calmly assured him that the shaking would stop. And it had, in short order, as the resilient young man's once-steady hands returned to their previous form, even if his former happy-go-lucky attitude did not. At first, the supervisor had been pleased with his employee's seeming maturity, but he was now left to wonder whether it just hid Greg's inner scars. And how he would hide his own.

Grissom knew he needed to call Sara, but the shaking wouldn't allow him to dial the number. So he kept his hands on the wheel and sped onward into the night, accompanied only by the glare of flashing lights and the whine of his siren.

The chirp of his phone made him jump, and he cursed soundly as he fished into his jacket pocket. Finding the offending device, he glanced once at the caller ID and tossed it onto the seat beside him. Brass could leave a message.

Traffic was light on the interstate at this time of night, and he was thankful that he didn't have to weave around other vehicles. He wasn't sure how well he could maneuver with the shaking in his hands.

The phone chirped again, and he glanced at it to see the message light flashing. He mentally calculated the odds that Jim was calling for something besides a reprimand and decided that they were somewhere between slim and none. He left the phone on the seat.

Grissom accelerated past a sports car filled with rowdy teenagers, ignoring their wide-eyed stares. His one goal at the moment was to get to Sara. What he would do next remained a mystery.

His pager buzzed, and he grabbed it off his belt quickly. Pressing the button to light the display, he pursed his lips as he read Jim's message. "Gil… answer the friggin' phone."

He turned the pager off and returned it to the holster on his belt. He needed to get to Sara first, and then he needed to get her someplace safe. Until that happened, the tremors in his hands would continue. Of that, he was certain.

XXXXXXXXX

When he reached the couch, he turned and walked in the opposite direction, chewing absently on one thumb. He was worried. This was a bad situation, and he didn't like it one bit. He crossed the kitchen's linoleum floor and turned around.

"Sixteen," said the calm figure on the couch, and he blinked at her quizzically, partially because of the random comment and partially because of her demeanor.

"What?"

"That's the sixteenth time you've paced across the floor, Nick. You're going to wear a hole in the carpet, and Grissom won't be a happy camper," Sara told him with a grin. She patted the sofa next to her. "Come sit."

"Fine," he responded petulantly as he plopped down on the sofa. He turned to look at her, holding his head back slightly to see her more clearly. "How can you be so calm about all this?"

She shrugged. How could she tell him that the earlier perceived threat to Grissom had realigned her priorities? Was there a way to explain that, as long as she was with Gil, it didn't matter where they were? As long as he was there, she had everything she needed – or wanted. But even admitting that to herself sounded ridiculously melodramatic.

So she settled for patting her friend on the shoulder reassuringly. "We've been over it a million times, Nick. This will work. Just stick to the plan."

He opened his mouth, undoubtedly to voice some protest, but he was once again interrupted by his cell phone. With some irritation, he plucked it from his belt and barked, "Stokes."

"It's Grissom. I'm outside. I just didn't want to scare you when I came in."

"Oh, hey, cool," Nick replied before ending the call. "Grissom's here," he told Sara, and the two involuntarily looked toward the door at the sound of a key being turned.

He shut the door firmly before he allowed himself to look at her because he anticipated his own response. And, when he turned around, his eyes locked on hers, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to prevent himself from crossing the room to pull her into his arms. But there was no time for that. First goal accomplished, he turned his focus to the second – to get her to a place of safety. He just had no idea where that would be.

Lucky for him, others had already decided. Nick stood up quickly and grabbed the two bags from the floor. "Are we ready?"

She nodded, but Grissom was momentarily thrown. "Ready for what?"

They both stared at him momentarily, but it was Sara who recovered first. "Crap, I forgot you don't know about Catherine's plan."

He blinked a little, kicking himself for not listening to Jim's message. "Apparently not," he responded flatly.

"It's OK," she smiled. "They couldn't have told you everything over the phone anyway. But it's pretty simple."

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "You've just gotta get her to the hotel. Should be easy enough, hopefully."

Grissom hadn't thought it was possible to be more confused but, clearly, he was wrong. He cocked his head. "Hotel?"

Sara glared at Nick before shifting her focus back to her bewildered supervisor. "Cath told us about the note, and she and Brass decided this probably isn't the safest place for us to be. She made a reservation for us at the New York, New York. Brass has undercover cops all over the place between here and there and, once we get to the room, we're supposed to stay put until instructed otherwise. And he is none too happy with you for not answering his calls, by the way."

Grissom managed a tiny smile. "I'll keep that in mind. Anything else?"

"Yeah, we can't use our cell phones in case there's a trace on them, so we're taking Nick's. And we're not supposed to use our credit cards either but, for some reason, Nick won't let us have his." She grinned at the young man in question. "Did I forget anything?"

He shook his head, but their boss spoke up. "Sara, is there some reason you're dressed like that?"

She glanced down at the button-down shirt that draped almost comically down her slight frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times. Its scent, so comforting at first, now seemed to accuse, and she reddened slightly under Grissom's continued scrutiny.

Thankfully, Nick piped up, "That was my idea. I figured, if we put her in one of your shirts and put a baseball cap on her, maybe she'd pass for a guy from a distance. You know, just in case this psycho is watching her or something."

When their boss didn't respond, he stammered in embarrassment. "Well, I mean… not that Sara really looks manly or anything…" He glanced at his friend helplessly, but she only stared back as he floundered. "I mean, he'd obviously have to be real far away or half-blind or something… i-it was kind of a dumb idea, I guess…"

"Nick!" Grissom interrupted, prompting the young man to blink back at him, wide-eyed. "It's a good disguise. Nice thinking." When the Texan responded with a beaming grin the size of his home state, Grissom looked sideways at Sara and cracked, "It's just a little big for you, though."

She smiled as she took her duffel bag from her colleague. "Yeah, well, Nick picked it out. If this is any indication of how good he is at guessing a woman's clothing size, I'd say it's pretty obvious why he can't keep a girlfriend."

"Hey, that's not fair! I don't go shopping for my girlfriends in Grissom's closet!"

"I'm more delighted to hear that than you could possibly know, Nick." His voice was serious, but his eyes twinkled as he spoke, and Sara giggled.

"You know what I meant," the younger man grumbled. He held up the remaining bag in his hand and said, "Well, you'd better hope I'm better at picking out guys' clothes because I'm the one who packed your suitcase." And they all laughed at that.

Grissom was the first to regain his composure, and he took Sara's bag from her and his own from Nick, shouldering them both easily. "We should go."

"Yeah," she agreed, sobering quickly. She turned to Nick and threw her arms around him. "Bye."

He returned the hug and said, "Be careful, OK?"

Grissom watched the exchange awkwardly, but Sara merely nodded and turned towards the door. And, when she turned to smile at him, he could do nothing but follow.

XXXXXXXXX

"Reservation for Kirby." Sara glanced around the casino as she waited for the desk clerk to call up the information. It was a little after midnight and, still, the hum of active slot machines was overwhelming.

Grissom, too, seemed dazzled by his surroundings, and she smiled as she watched him look around the lobby with his mouth slightly open. When he turned back to face her, he reddened slightly at her gaze. "I've never actually stayed here before," he admitted lowly.

"Me either," she whispered conspiratorially and was rewarded with a smile.

"Ah, here we are," the clerk announced. "James and Elizabeth Kirby?"

Grissom looked shocked, but Sara spoke up quickly. "Yes, that's us." She reached for his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, hoping he would just play along and not give them away. And he must have understood because he relaxed his hand and intertwined his fingers with hers.

She looked up at him in surprise and was met with the ghost of a smile, but the clerk demanded her attention again. "Your room is taken care of by a private donor, who has also agreed to fund any incidentals. Is there anything further I could assist you with?"

Sara shook her head, and the young woman handed her an envelope containing two key cards. "You're in room 1217. We hope you have a pleasant stay at the New York, New York, Mr. and Mrs. Kirby."

Grissom thanked the clerk and, without releasing Sara's hand, led the way to the elevators. "Kirby, huh?"

She was caught up in the feeling of his fingers brushing against hers, and his question caught her off-guard. "Um, yeah. What's wrong with Kirby?"

He shook his head as he stared at the display above the elevator. "Nothing. But Catherine's not as smart as she seems to think."

Sara stared at him, mystified. He grinned and explained, "William Kirby is widely considered to be the father of entomology, so I'm sure Cath thought I'd appreciate the joke."

The elevator doors parted, and Grissom tugged her into the compartment behind him. She looked up at him quizzically. "Then how is she not so smart?"

He smiled, obviously pleased with her interest, and pushed the button for the twelfth floor. "Because Pierre-André Latreille is the true father of entomology. He was writing definitive textbooks on insect classification before Kirby ever published anything of real value. Latreille never got the recognition he deserved." He glanced at her with a mischievous wink. "Then again, maybe Cath did know what she was doing. I'm not sure we'd pass for French."

The bell dinged to announce their arrival, and she followed him out with her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. The man was nothing if not amusing.

He let go of her hand to slide the key card into the magnetic lock and held the door open for her to enter first. Sara strolled in and dropped onto the double bed beside the window. "I'll take this one."

He nodded as he dropped the bags next to the closet and sat wearily on his own bed. As he scrubbed a hand over his face, he realized how exhausted he was.

Sara must have noticed, too. "You look tired."

"I'm fine," he argued, but his yawn betrayed him.

She smiled. "You could sleep, you know. It's not like we're going anywhere. It sounds like a good idea to me, too, actually."

She kicked off her shoes, and Grissom watched as she stretched out acrossthe bed like some long-legged tigress before she curled up on her side to face him. "Take a nap, Griss. You'll feel better."

Unwilling to argue further, he removed his own shoes and arranged the pillows to allow him to recline in a semi-seated position. He closed his eyes but, each time slumber drew near, he jolted awake.

After the third time it happened, Sara opened her eyes and glanced up at him in mild irritation. "What's wrong with you?"

He shook his head and sat on the edge of the bed, hands beside him on the mattress and eyes staring wildly around the room. "I can't sleep."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Either," he snapped.

"Why not?"

Her voice was too gentle, and it bothered him. He dropped his eyes to the floor and rubbed across the back of his neck. "Because! I'm supposed to protect you and, if I go to sleep…" He shook his head, having no desire to finish the thought.

She said nothing for a long time, and he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. He focused on the carpet, on the swirling pattern of black and deep red, and he started when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He jerked his head up quickly.

"Scoot over."

"What?" He narrowed his eyes in bewilderment.

"Grissom, don't argue. Just move over there." She pointed to the opposite side of the bed, and something in her tone compelled him to comply.

When she stretched out beside him, he nearly panicked, but she simply covered his left hand with hers and intertwined her fingers with his. And, when she spoke, her voice was gentle, soothing, and reminded him of the ocean. "Now you can sleep. Nobody can take me without waking you up."

He stared at her for a long time, and she smiled and closed her eyes, her breathing settling into a gentle rhythm. But, before she could sink completely into a deep sleep, he turned away from her, draping her arm across his side and holding her hand against his heart to keep her close to him. She smiled against his back and, as he cradled her hand in his own, he realized for the first time that his hand had stopped shaking.

**TBC…**

10


	23. Behind Closed Doors

**A/N: **I'm baaacckkk! Did you miss me:-) No, I didn't abandon this story, and I'm offering apologies galore for the prolonged delay. Real life has been a real pain, and the words were just not flowing. Sigh…

**Spoilers: **"Butterflied," "Play with Fire," "Sex, Lies, and Larvae"

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_. Well, actually, it's in the public domain so, in a way, I guess I do. Hmm, maybe CBS should do that with _CSI:._ What do you think? Just dole out little pieces to everybody? I've got dibs on Grissom:-)

**Chapter 23: Behind Closed Doors**

It had been an active night in the DNA lab. Not oppressively so, but steady. And that was just the way Greg liked it. Too busy meant stress and headaches and dipping heavily into his Blue Hawaiian. Too slow meant boredom and drowsiness and dipping heavily into his Blue Hawaiian. Either way, he too quickly depleted his stash of prized java and, at forty dollars a pound, that wasn't an option he relished.

He'd arrived a few hours early to take over for a sick colleague from swing, and his productivity thus far had been impressive. He'd finished Morales' half-completed Southern blot before moving on to some extractions from the case he'd helped to process in the desert. As expected, there was nothing probative, and he'd been documenting the last of the results when Nick had entered.

"Suicide," the Texan had drawled, punctuating the blunt statement with a nod when Greg's jaw dropped. "Yeah, can you believe it? I guess she got off on being strangled during sex, so he choked her with his necktie. They must have gone a little farther than they meant to, though, because she passed out. And he freaked and shot himself with the gun she kept in her purse. Too bad he didn't think to check her pulse before he offed himself."

Nick's final remark had been a casual offering tossed over his shoulder as he headed out to complete paperwork, but his younger counterpart had spent the last hour pondering life and death and the nearly transparent line separating the two.

_What a waste_. Nimble fingers carefully spooning agarose into a weigh boat, he shook his head sadly. _Two lives screwed up_.

He wondered how long these kinds of cases would bother him and what shape his eventual immunity would take. Would he develop a macabre sense of humor like Brass, a macho exterior like Nick, a deep-seated withdrawal from the world like Grissom? He sighed, uncertain which of those – if any – he'd prefer.

He was pouring buffer solution into a flask when Catherine spoke from the doorway. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Painting the Sistine Chapel," he deadpanned. At her exaggerated eye roll, he grinned and glanced pointedly at the reagents scattered across the bench. "Hey, ask a silly question…"

She cut him off. "How long will it take you to finish?" At any other time, Greg's antics might have been amusing. Today she really wasn't in the mood.

His countenance fell at her brusque tone, the wide smile rapidly disappearing. "Uhhh… maybe… fifteen more minutes?"

"Good. Meet us in the breakroom when you're done. You seen Nick?"

Greg shook his head as he swirled the flask and laid it carefully on the burner. "Not lately. Last time I saw him, he was going to file the paperwork for our case."

"Thanks," she replied absently, already moving down the hall. The usual bustle of harried officers and overworked scientists was comforting in its normality, and she momentarily pondered the lab as a metaphor for life. It was a microcosm of society as a whole with its own system of justice, its own set of warring factions, its own class hierarchy. But, like any society, it also had its own heroes.

She could only hope that title would belong to the graveyard shift today. For Sara's sake. And for Gil's.

XXXXXXXXX

Nick glanced up from a pile of paperwork when the solitary figure walked into the breakroom. "'Sup?"

Shoulders slumped, Warrick mumbled a barely coherent response and made a beeline for the coffee maker. After filling a mug with the lukewarm brew, he dropped heavily into a chair and closed his eyes.

His friend watched him curiously. "Wow, you look like you've been rode hard and put up wet."

Warrick snorted. "Man, I don't even know what that means."

Any reply was preempted by Catherine's abrupt entrance. With little ceremony, she dropped a stack of case files onto the breakroom table. "Good, you're both here…" Her words trailed off when she noticed Warrick's haggard appearance. "You look like hell."

He grinned tiredly as he peered up at her through bloodshot eyes. "Y'all really know how to make a brother feel the love around here."

She smiled, but it faded quickly as she watched him lean his head back again. "How long has it been since you slept?"

"Mmm…" He rolled his head to the side to glance at his watch. "…about 36 hours."

"What!"

His colleagues' indignant bellow was simultaneous, and Warrick chuckled. "In stereo. Nice."

Catherine shot him a stern glare that was quickly forgotten as Greg skidded into the room, nearly colliding with the doorframe in his haste. With all the grace of a bull in a china shop, the young scientist dragged the nearest chair away from the table and clumsily seated himself. His grin was sheepish when he looked up to find three pairs of eyes fixed on him. "Sorry I'm late."

The blonde shook her head. "Let's just get down to business, shall we? It's only the four of us tonight."

Greg's expression immediately registered his surprise, and Catherine sighed. "Greg, let me fill you in. Gil and Sara are in protective custody, and they'll have to stay there until we've solved this case."

"What happened?" The lab tech's eyes were huge, and Catherine couldn't decide whether she'd rather hug or scold him.

She sighed as she took the seat beside him, hoping the maneuver would downplay her supervisor status and put them on more equal footing. "Greg, they're safe. But we need to solve this case, and we're all going to have to do our part. Can you handle that?"

He swallowed hard, and Catherine smiled when he nodded. "Good." She pulled the top file from the stack in front of her. "OK, guys, this is how we're running things. Nicky, you were on the Shea case from the beginning, so you stick with that one. Warrick, you keep Marilyn Ellis, and I'm primary on the Hutchins case."

She pushed the case files toward each CSI as she spoke, and they each nodded in turn. A solitary file remained, and she fingered one corner as she studied her youngest colleague. Unable to stand the continued scrutiny, Greg finally spoke. "What about me?"

"You get this one." She slid the slim folder over to him. "Javier Lopez, age 56. He was an executioner at the Clark County Pen until his untimely demise from a lethal injection of potassium into the femoral vein in November of 2003."

Greg looked vaguely horrified, and Catherine added gently, "Sara just remembered the similarities between this case and the others yesterday. It was originally her case, and nobody else has looked at it. Now it's yours, and you can't leave any stone unturned. Got it?"

"Yeah," he responded, and she smiled grimly at the determination in his voice.

"Alright, I have an autopsy to get to. Grab a quiet spot somewhere, and look over your cases. We'll meet back here and compare notes in a few hours."

She watched as they each shuffled out and grabbed Warrick's arm as he passed. "Not you. You need sleep first and foremost."

He started to protest, but she stopped him with one professionally manicured finger. "No, Warrick! We need you to be able to function, and you're dead on your feet."

"I'm fine. And evidence is time-sensitive, Cath."

"I _know _you didn't just quote Gil Grissom to the woman who's spent the last ten years ignoring most of what he says."

He chuckled. "Listen…"

She shook her head. "No, you listen because I've got a Catherine Willows quote for you. The evidence is only as good as the people collecting it and, right now, you're no good to any of us. Either take a nap on that couch, or go home and come back tomorrow night. It's up to you."

He glared at her, but she returned the look mildly. Finally, he sighed in concession. "Wake me up in an hour."

"I'll be back in two," she chirped, and her smirk grew as she listened to the annoyed protests emanating from behind the door as she closed it.

XXXXXXXXX

He'd had this dream before. More times than he could count. He knew where it started and how it ended and all points in between. Only this time…

This time, it was different.

Oh, it was still the same familiar crime scene he'd been called to on that blustery January night. He could still feel the plush thickness of expensive carpeting under his feet. He could still hear the din of sepulchral stillness that blanketed the house in an oppressive presence. He could even see the same irregular images cast on the ground by alternating patterns of shadow and light.

But this time, when he reached the master bath, Sara wasn't there. Or, more accurately, she wasn't lying on the checkered floor in an ever-darkening pool of her own blood. And he wasn't kneeling beside her, staring at the knife in his hand and her blood on his fingers.

What he found instead was a smiling and very much alive Sara standing in the middle of the bathroom, hair bound into a ponytail that made her look impossibly young. She beckoned, and he took one cautious step forward.

"What is it that you want, Grissom?"

Confused, he shook his head, but she persisted. "Just tell me what it is you want, Gil. Tell me what you feel."

Perhaps it was the way his heart skipped a beat when she spoke his first name. Maybe he was caught off-guard by her unexpected bluntness. Or perhaps it simply gushed out of some deeply buried wellspring of honesty.

"_You_, Sara. I want _you_. I love _you_."

Somewhere between his first word and his last one, her smile grew until it lit her entire face, and he found himself responding in kind. She reached up to trail a hand slowly down his cheek and, when her fingers brushed over his lips, he captured her hand in his.

It wasn't until his fingers touched hers that he noticed the gloved hand gripping her throat. Try as he might, he could not make out the face of her captor, but the voice was unmistakable. Accusing. Piercing.

"You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late."

Prophetic.

The fatal blow was delivered so quickly he didn't have time to react, but her body crumpled toward the ground with absurd slowness, blood pooling in jagged puddles around her head. Grissom fought to maintain his grip on her hand, but her icy fingers slipped from his even as he tightened his hold.

The shadowy assailant retreated into darkened recesses at the edge of the dream, leaving a lone slip of paper to flutter down in his wake. Grissom watched as it came to rest on the patterned floor, and he read its message with a sense of foreboding. _Good night, Agent Sidle. Parting is such sweet sorrow._

He looked back at Sara just in time to see the last vestiges of life fade from her eyes, and he felt her fingers slide completely from his grip. And, even as he reached for her, he knew she was gone. Forever. _Too late_.

It was that thought that pushed him up, gasping, a hoarse cry of anguish on his lips. "No! Sara!"

"Grissom? What is it?"

He stared at her, blinking, reality crashing down around him in heavy, pounding waves. His lungs burned with each breath, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the fact that she was there, beside him, alive.

Sara watched him with no small amount of concern. She'd been awake for nearly an hour but had remained true to her promise, maintaining her firm grip on his hand and occupying her mind with listening to the simple music of his breathing. Indeed, so intent had she become on memorizing that gentle rhythm that its gradual descent into irregularity had been her first clue that something was wrong.

She'd pulled her hand away from him then, hoping it would waken him and loosen the grip of his subconscious. But the act had merely served to agitate him further, and she could only watch helplessly as, moments later, he had finally emerged from the nightmare.

His eyes were unfocused and wild, his expression distant, and he heaved in great, gulping breaths. She saw the twitch in his jaw and the way he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. But it was the one bead of perspiration that rolled down his cheek that captivated her attention.

In her lifetime, Sara Sidle had witnessed events of monumental significance. The peace treaty signed by Begin and Sadat. The fall of the Berlin wall. The protests in Tiananmen Square. The terrorist bombings of September 2001.

She'd always found it curious that, while such major events had shaped her world, it was the smallest of details that changed her worldview. The lingering smell of copper that shattered her innocence. The forced smile in a childhood photograph that jumpstarted her on the road to adult responsibility. And the tiny drop of sweat that finally made her Gil Grissom's equal.

She'd spent the last decade looking up to him – as a mentor, as a supervisor, even as the man she loved. He was incredibly intelligent. Brilliant, even. Impeccably articulate, invariably logical. In her eyes, he was perfection. But perfection is frustrating for mere mortals, and desperation had made her a caged animal straining against bonds of human inadequacy.

She remembered telling him once about her nightmares and the cold sweats that accompanied them. Her tone was condescending, the explanation relayed in accusatory response to some callous remark he'd made about her empathy for a victim.

She'd never considered that Grissom might also have nightmares. That he, too, might be a victim of his own subconscious. It had never occurred to her that he might also awake shivering in a cold sweat. Funny how seeing it firsthand made all the difference.

Grissom was human.

Reverently, she reached up to trace the path made by a lone drop of perspiration, and he immediately recoiled from her touch, eyes snapping open and boring into hers with alarming intensity. Embarrassed, she stood quickly, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were OK."

"I'm fine," he stated curtly, and she flinched at his harsh tone.

She felt the blush creeping up her face and turned away quickly. Her eyes fell on her suitcase, and she grabbed it, thankful for the distraction. _Shirt, jeans, underwear, shampoo… _She mentally recounted each item even as she shoved the pain down, down, down, burying it deep alongside all the others.

Grissom sighed as he watched her sift through her belongings, cursing himself silently for hurting her. Again.

But her hand on his cheek was too much, too soon, the nightmare still too fresh, his heart still beating too rapidly, and he closed his eyes against the vivid memory of her pooling blood.

Sara moved toward the bathroom without looking at him, and she had almost reached her destination when his voice stopped her.

_Keep going. _He said her name so softly that she barely heard it, and it would have been so easy to pretend she hadn't. _Just a few more steps…_

But there was something in his voice, a lost timbre she hadn't heard before, and she slowly turned to face him.

"Thank you," he breathed, and she wasn't sure if it was for acknowledging his call or for something else. He opened his mouth to say more, but the words seemed to get caught somewhere in the process.

She watched his eyes, the near pleading she saw there and, finally, she sighed. Forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she thumbed a hand toward the bathroom. "I'll be right in here if you need me."

And then he was alone again, more empty than alive. The click of a lock, the quiet gurgle of running water, an indecipherable cadence of ordinary routine, and all he could feel was want. The words fell from his lips without him consciously giving them voice. "I love you."

It was the first time in forty years he'd said those words aloud. Forty years had never felt so much like eternity.

XXXXXXXXX

At this point, coffee had become as essential as breathing, and Jim Brass was desperately hoping to find a decent cup in the breakroom. It was this singleminded lust for caffeine that he would later blame for the dullness of his normally keen powers of observation. He might otherwise have noticed two simple but highly unusual facts: The door was closed, and the lights were off.

As it was, he simply shoved the door open, his irritation causing him to use a little more force than necessary. He flipped the light switch, and fluorescent illumination blazed forth as he made a beeline for the coffee maker. What he found was far from a gourmet blend and really couldn't even qualify as fresh. But it was drinkable, and for that he was thankful.

He had just finished pouring when a noise from behind prompted him to whirl around, and he narrowly avoided scalding his own hand with the coffee that sloshed over the side of the styrofoam cup. The curse word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. When he spotted the amused green eyes of the sound's source, he snapped, "You scared the crap out of me."

Warrick's attempt to hide his grin was halfhearted. "Sorry."

Brass sighed as he reached for a handful of paper towels and crouched down to clean up his spill. With an upwards glance, he asked, "What, are you sleeping on the job?"

"Not by choice." The younger man's retort was accompanied by a frown. He stretched his arms over his head before getting to his feet.

The cop smirked. "Catherine?"

"The one and only." Warrick turned a chair around to straddle it. Draping one arm on the table, he rested his chin on the back of his hand and reached for the Ellis case file.

Brass studied him quietly as he dropped the pile of paper towels in the trash. He could practically feel the exhaustion radiating off the younger man. Or maybe he just felt his own. _Either way…_

The criminalist glanced up in surprise when a steaming cup appeared in front of him. "Hey, thanks."

"You look like you could use it."

"I'm gonna take that as being concern rather than some backhanded comment on the way I look."

The detective grinned. "You do that."

Sipping his coffee, Warrick eyed the cop appraisingly. "You're lookin' kinda glazed yourself. What've you been up to?"

"Surveillance."

The younger man nodded. It didn't take a genius to guess the subjects. "How are they?"

"They're safe. For now," he replied, pushing away from the counter to toss his cup in the garbage. "I'm headed over to Sara's apartment complex, just do a little look-see. If this creep has been stalking her, maybe somebody's seen him."

He sighed. Life was short. Too short, and Brass knew that well. Each workday brought him face to face with the mangled bodies and shattered lives that drove the point home emphatically. Over the years, he'd learned to maintain his professional distance, perfecting a gruff exterior and biting sense of humor that kept both victims and colleagues at arms' length. It was a defense more vital than any body armor.

It was only now that he realized the only person fooled by his façade had been himself. His coworkers were his family, and no amount of sarcasm could change that.

He dropped a beefy hand on the younger man's shoulder as he passed. "Find this guy, 'Rick, and I'll be _more_ than happy to put him away."

"I'm on it."

Jim wasn't quite sure whether he was more convinced by the determined tone or the confident nod from his young colleague, but he was grateful nonetheless.

XXXXXXXXX

Catherine latched Grissom's office door behind her and headed straight for his chair, stopping just long enough to drop her evidence on the desk. A quiet moan escaped her as she leaned back and allowed herself the simple pleasure of momentary relaxation. The chair was pure Grissom – no frills, and utilitarian at best – but, at the moment, there was not a place on earth she'd rather be.

Five minutes was all she could spare for her own comfort and, though it wasn't nearly long enough, she cherished it. When time was up, she groaned but dutifully raised her head and pushed aside just enough clutter from the desk to clear space for her legal pad.

The final report from Tania Hutchins' autopsy was not yet complete, but she'd witnessed it firsthand. Knowing its priority status, Doc Robbins had bumped the case to the top of his list and had promised to get her an official copy of the report before the end of the night.

Not that it mattered. She'd seen enough posts to be able to pick up on the significant findings. She just needed to get them down on paper before she forgot anything of value.

She flipped to a clean page and began jotting notes. "Cause of death: air embolus"… "venipuncture to left antecubital vein"… "recent surgical reconstruction of the anterior cruciate ligament of the left knee"… "no ligature marks"… "time of death: approximately 24 – 36 hours ago"…

Catherine glanced at her watch. "Sometime between 5:00 Wednesday night and 5:00 Thursday morning, a cop dies in her own apartment, tied up in restraints so loose they don't even leave a mark and, apparently, no one nearby hears a thing," she muttered. "How does that happen?"

She picked up the plastic bag containing the neoprene restraints and stared at it without really seeing it. _This girl was strong, bad knee or not. How did somebody inject her with air without restraining her?_

She sighed as she dropped the bag onto the desk. _Figure that out, genius, and you solve the case._

"Enough of this," she grumbled as she reached for her cell phone. She'd never been too proud to ask for help when she needed it.

"H-hello?"

She certainly recognized his voice, but the faltering inflection threw her. "Gil?"

"Catherine."

She didn't analyze why it made her feel better when his voice returned to its normal, rock-steady cadence, and she didn't bother with routine conversation starters. Grissom had never been one for small talk. "Thought I'd fill you in on where we are."

The details took only a few minutes to relay, but voicing them always seemed to help the thought process. When she finished her presentation, his response was straightforward. "How did he inject air into her arm without more forcibly restraining her?"

She scoffed. "I was hoping you could shed some light on that for me."

He closed his eyes in thought. "So we have Allison Shea killed by lethal injection of sodium chloride. The next victim… what was his name?"

"Javier Lopez."

"Yes, Lopez. Lethal injection of potassium, right?"

She hummed her agreement, and he continued. "Then Marilyn Ellis, injection of household bleach. And, finally, this girl. Death by air embolus."

There was something there, he knew. He could feel it, but he couldn't elucidate it. Those were the most frustrating moments of his investigative career. He'd just never had any idea how much that frustration could be compounded by the fact that this case involved Sara.

He listened to the background noise of water meeting tile, and it was both a comfort and an annoyance. Sara was still there, alive and well. He just didn't know how long she'd stay that way, and the threat to her life was a constant terrorizing presence.

If Catherine was hoping for some grand enlightenment, she was sorely disappointed. When his silence stretched on toward a minute, she sighed. "So how are you two holding up?"

"Fine. We're… fine." He swallowed hard, hoping his answer would satisfy her. Catherine was one of his oldest and dearest friends, and her powers of perception in the social arena were indisputable. Her question had been an innocent one, but with implications that went far beyond what she was asking. And if anyone could pick up on those deeper implications, it would be her. But he had no desire to discuss Sara with her. Not now, not ever.

"Gil…"

He grimaced at the tone of her voice that somehow managed to be simultaneously pitying and curious, and he searched frantically for a distraction. "Hey, I never thanked you for taking care of the reservations here. You and Jim came up with a good plan to keep Sara safe, and I really appreciate it."

She smiled at his desperate attempt to change the subject and decided to let him off the hook. For now. "You're welcome. Just don't go overboard with the incidentals."

His eyes narrowed. "Catherine…"

She mentally kicked herself. _Three, two, one…_

"A private donor seems to be funding our stay. You wouldn't happen to know the identity of said donor, would you?"

_Zero. Good to know his deductive reasoning is still intact._ "If I told you that, they wouldn't be 'private,' now, would they?"

"I see," he replied, and the seconds ticked away as he searched through a massive vocabulary for the right words to express his gratitude. It shamed him that his final choice was, "Well, just… tell her I said thank you."

She smiled but refused to verbally acknowledge the accuracy of his statement. "I'm sure that person was happy to do it."

Grissom heard the shower turn off, and he pressed a finger firmly against the center of his forehead to stave off the headache that was threatening to form. But the thought that sprang to the forefront of his mind pushed him to his feet. "Cath, where did the potassium come from?"

"Huh?"

He ignored her as he paced across the room in time with his own racing train of thought. "Bleach is easy enough, and he could have made up a salt water solution for Allison Shea. And, of course, air is readily available. But potassium… where'd he get that?"

Catherine caught on. "I'll check into it."

The line went dead and, with more hope than he'd felt in days, Grissom reached into his pocket for the twin pages that were the only evidence he could get his hands on at the moment.

**TBC…**


End file.
